After forty eight days of penance,
of sleeping on the floor with no comfort,
Fasting and chanting the names of Lords,
are our favorites to go nearer to our Masters,
The hooks on the back and the chest,
can pull the mini Lord dwelling chariots,
the hanging lemons not really hurt,
the spear bridge the separated cheeks
Thousands of young, old and the cured,
carry the milk pot on the heads,
Kavadi carrying devotees on trance,
The Lord Muruga on the hills, smiles,
The infants in the cloth cradles, .
swinging in between the shoulders,
of parents laden with sugar canes,
millions in His house on this full moon,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem