The breeze is cool and the distant quill coos,
The sultry solitude rules with blooming hues,
The rays of country's dust march through the holes,
Laden are those, who are yet to rise to bow.
The running of river sends the noises of bangles,
The early cattle are out to graze and grow,
The tea stalls at the sheds have the boiling boilers,
The elderly men are there to curse the rulers.
The month of curse is welcome with beautiful kolam,
A handful of cow dung and the flowers of pumpkin,
Adorn each threshold of every household, young,
Girls are out to pray for a good spouse, early morning.
The misty month before the month of harvest and marriage,
Our men have the thought of reaping the profits,
A few from the fields and a few from the betrothal,
Generations of life spent without any being a rebel.
The joy is there in the community where we can enjoy,
The hands are there to hold us tight, not at tryst, but at tears,
The state and the fools look for the Sun, fun and gun from the west,
Knowing not happiness is assured on the lands of humble tribes.