Four kinds of trait
Assets
Brahmin: Brain
Kshatrya: Ego
Vysya: Desire
Sudhra: Skill
Tools
Brahmin: Knowledge
Kshatrya: Valour
Vysya: Risk
Sudhra: Labour
End
Brahmin: Position
Kshatrya: Power
Vysya: Wealth
Sudhra: Acceptance
Yoga
Brahmin: Jnana
Kshatrya: Raja
Vysya: Bhakthi
Suhra: Karma
Sex
Brahmin: Procreation
Kshatrya: Entertainment
Vysya: Lust
Sudhra: Accident
Weakness
Brahmin: Selfishness
Kshatrya: Error of judgment
Vysya: Sin of pursuit
Sudhra: Slip of impulse
Goal
Brahmin: Security
Kshatrya: Authority
Vysya: comfort
Sudhra: Recognition
Value
Brahmin: Eternal
Kshatrya: Justice
Vysya: Dharma
Sudhra: Dedication
Prohibition
Brahmin: Craving
Kshatrya: Treachery
Vysya: Misery
Sudhra: Rivalry
Analogy (animals)
Brahmin: Fox (cunning)
Kshatrya: Lion (commanding)
Vysya: Rat (hoarding)
Sudhra: Ass (labouring)
Analogy (human)
Brahmin: Head
Kshatrya: Heart
Vysya: Senses
Sudhra: Limbs
Analogy (chariot)
Sudhra: horses
Vysya: Wheels
Kshatrya: Whips
Brahmin: Charioteer.
Strains of the traits
Residually still remain
17.10.99
[Hindus used to live as four different sects]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
Four colours
It is Brhmin
Who cracks his head
To seek knowledge
And sits supreme.
Fully secure.
It is Kshatrya
Who whips his ego
To seek power
And sits on the throne.
Fully in pride.
It is Vysya
Who stirs his desire
To seek wealth
And sits on the cushion.
Fully in comfort.
It is Sudhra
Who toils his limbs
To seek perfection
And wait for recognition.
Fully in satisfaction.
We lost many strains
In the process of revolt.
17.10.99
[Indoaryans lived as four different castes over centuries till the last centurary.]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Just food
Just give some food
Ans see I'm satisfied
I'm a brahmin.
For a brahmin
Food is the bare necessities.
Anna chinta chamatkara.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The good breed hardly dies.
With advent of democracy and literacy,
Went in decline the Brahmin authority.
Yet, the rest submit to their purity and nobility.
The well reared are not the well bred.
08.10.2000
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Perumaal 31-36
31Vanquishing Ravana Rama wished whereafter to atone
A golden cow whereon offered to a brahmin
Thou abode where of gold, brahmin built
Allimaamalar where with Manavalan favouring Shiva
To Thou abode that of ThirusemponseyKoil
That in pasurams Thirumangai versifies
Hey HemaRanga, vision, I surrender
32 Lamping Thou luminance eternal in'Nanda Vilakku'
Thou abode amid where mansioned beauty
Narayana where from Badrika descended
Where with Pundarikavalli Thee bestowing Shiva
To Thou abode that of ThirumanimadaKoil
That illumes in verses Thirumangai
Hey Narayana, Nanda, vision, I surrender
33 Thou persona where like Thine at Vaikunta
Descended where fulgent surpassing crored suns
Armed four armoured where with weapons
Vaikuntavalli where with Thee blessing Shiva
To Thou abode that of Thiruvaikuntavinnagaram
That praises Thee in Thirumangai's heart
Hey Vaikuntanatha, vision, I surrender
34 Mien Thou presence where as LakshmiNarasimha
Poornavalli where with Thee in proximity
Thou embracing whereat with Amrithavalli
Preached Thee Narayana mantra where to Thirumangai
To Thou abode that of Thiruvali, ThiruNagari
That presents Thee juxtaposed to Shiva
Hey Vedaraja, vision, I surrender
35 Descended Thee where from Thiruvidanthai
Espoused Thee where Thou Lakshmi
Thou wedding wherefor deavas congregated
Kadalmagalnachiyar where with Thee gracing Shiva
To Thou abode that of Thirudevanarthogai
That accolades Thou Madhava Thirumangai
Hey Deivanayaka, vision, I surrender
36 Thou repose where on Adisesha four armed
Descended Thee where from Arangam
Thou eyes beauteous where wakeful, blissful
Where with Senkamalavalli Thee blessing Shiva
To Thou abode that of Thiruthetriambalam
That praises Thee in Thirumangai's heart
Hey LakshmiRanga, vision, I surrender
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Temple Drummer and Piper
Flagellant!
Flexor of the Temple's
Flexuous moulded walls
The high reliefs sallying through your
Flaunting fingers
Wrap the holy-comer with your
Invocatory maul
While word of Vedic prayer
Seeps from some steepening Brahmin wall
O stretched bowel of your potted paunch
In perspiration's puffing piped paean
Rivet the eyes of man and god
Outside the walls of priestly palaver
Monotonic bell and OM
OM and monotonic bell
OM
OMM
OM
poem by T. Wignesan
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Brahma
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Brahma
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Men of Honour!
Fourteen years in forests he lived
For in honesty he believed;
And ‘Rama’ in hard turf thus forayed
His father’s words he had obeyed.
When with might he takes the aim
Puts the greatest archers to shame
His teacher showed a bird on tree
Nothing but its eye, ‘Arjuna’ would see.
Out in the lawns of his school
The sage had his pupils busy,
A tiger attacked, to ‘sala’ he called
And the tiger was stabbed brutally.
A Brahmin scholar of intensity
Faced the corrupt kings atrocity,
Undid his braid and he did swear,
'Chandragupta' rose, 'chanakya' tied his hair.
poem by Seema Aarella
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Pagett, M.P.
The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where eath tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.
Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith --
He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth";
Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.
March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay,
Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay."
March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he.
"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P.
April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, --
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.
May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever --slight, but he called it severe.
Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat --
Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.
July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear.
'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears;
But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.
We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
(I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.
And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"
And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Mohini Chatterjee
I ASKED if I should pray.
But the Brahmin said,
'pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
'I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything.
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain.'''
That he might Set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these, or words like these,
I add in commentary,
'Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied --
Grave is heaped on grave
That they be satisfied --
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped on Birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Curse of Caste
I
They came on bullock-carts
loaded with gods
Indra
Agni
Varuna
Rudra
traversed sinuous mountain ranges
rivers
gurgling outlandish tongues
their children caged as poultry
their priests chanting weird mantras
spells
charms
curses
hymns
drank the soma juice
choking with the sacrificial bleating
of rams
II
Agreed, all societies structure themselves
Out of scant need to function sans bother
Just as individuals must come together
In order better to protect themselves
All men are born equal, so say the Wise
But the Elders do not know how to stem
Rishis who would seek to mock them
By claiming they were twice-born to rise
Above all mankind for wasn't it the decreed omen
For the Primaeval Being that the self-chosen few
Should forever speak for the Brahman in lieu
Of Purusha's helpless eyes, brain, heart and abdomen
The only difference between the Brahmin
And the rest of the menial human race
Is that they were born with Brahma's grace
So that they could spurn the rest as vermin
Yet India's underside boasts of invisible millions
Who have no place in sacred Hymns of Man
They weren't created by Rig-Veda: only as Harijan
May they hang out in limbo as Gandhi's minions.
Resources
Roughly, the Hindu caste system is broadly divided into four sacrosanct strata; yet there are literally tens of sub-castes in each category:
1. Brahmin (the priesthood caste, supposedly on top of the social hierarchy) , followed by 2. Kshatriya (the princely hereditary and/or ruling warrior caste):
3. Vashya (the commercial trading, professional and land-owning agricultural castes):
4. Sudra (the menial serving and peasant castes) ,
followed by the Out-caste:
5. The Untouchable or scavenging caste (which has not found authority in the above Vedic hymn.)
« brahmano ‘sya mukham asid,
bahu rajaniah krtah;
uru tad asya yad vaisya;
padbhyam sudro ajayata. »
Rigveda, X,90,12 (sans signes diacritiques)
'His mouth was the Brahman, his two arms were made the warrior,
his two thighs the Vaisya; from his two feet the Sudra was born.'
Transl. & translit. by Arthur A. MacDonnell (1854 - 1930) ,1917
(© T. Wignesan - Paris,1998 - from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent',1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Irony of Things
It is an irony to believe that Ayothya
Is the birth place of Rama, as by the time
When Rama lived around 1450 B.C.,
Aryans never crossed Punjab or beyond.
It is an irony to say that Mathura
Is the birth place of Krishna, as by the time
When Krishna lived around 900 B.C.,
Aryans never reached up to Mathura.
It is an irony to establish that Durga,
A Dravidian origin, fostered later by Aryans,
Is the destroyer of Sura padman,
An asura, a co-dravidian, among Dravidians.
It is an irony that the very Dravidian
Movement has landed in the hand of a Brahmin
And then at a hand who too had mortgaged the interest
To Aryan for sake of his dynasty.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hate Industry
Hate industry drives the nation,
It gives automatic up gradation,
In the dirty vote trade with a wild card,
Entry into the secular paradise.
Hate Modi, Hate Tytler, Hate Sajjan;
Hate Gujarat, Hate India, Hate Hindu;
Hate Brahmin, Hate Merit, Hate patriotism;
Hate is a big money minting industry.
Filming dead, nude and hungry;
Branded as art modern and grand,
Exhibiting rioting, burning and raping;
Treated as activism, valiant and virtuous.
Awarded heavy packages for Hate shops,
NGOs, secularists, activists, journalists;
Intellectuals, lawyers, lobbyist;
All take a dip in this Hate waters.
Plethora of Hate entrepreneurs,
Hate is pious and religious;
Hate loving warriors hit the big time,
O country men! Beware of Hate butchers.
poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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We Are The Adivasis.[India]
We are the adivasis,
Those Mundals and Santals,
Who had lived in India
Before Dravidians did,
Before Aryans came through passes.
We are the adivasis,
Who by Aryans were
Called Rakshasas,
Who by Aryans were
Slaughtered to their whims and fancy.
We are the adivasis,
Like Ekalavya,
Who by Arya Drona was
Disabled to their delight,
To glorifiy Arjuna to our plight.
We are the adivasis,
A chunk of whom
By Aryans were branded
As Bahujans and Dalits
To serve them without touching.
We are the adivasis,
Whose God is not divine,
Nor beyond our kin,
But our own ancestors,
Who were to them devils and evils.
We are the adivasis,
Where there lived
Democracy and solidarity
With no superiority,
With no Brahmin nobility and purity.
We are the adivasis,
Whose women were
Not pawns or on pyres,
Nor a gift with dowries
But ones who chose their own mates.
We are the adivasis,
Who by Hindu Aryans
Were polluted
And by Christian intruders
Were diluted in our values and principle.
We are the adivasis,
Who want back our throne
Usurped by the invaders,
And who want to undo wrongs
And avenge the Aryan chauvinism.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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We are the adivasis
.
We are the adivasis,
Those Mundals and Santals,
Who had lived in India
Before Dravidians did,
Before Aryans came through passes.
We are the adivasis,
Who by Aryans were
Called Rakshasas,
Who by Aryans were
Slaughtered to their whims and fancy.
We are the adivasis,
Like Ekalavya,
Who by Arya Drona was
Disabled to their delight,
To glorifiy Arjuna to our plight.
We are the adivasis,
A chunk of whom
By Aryans were branded
As Bahujans and Dalits
To serve them without touching.
We are the adivasis,
Whose God is not divine,
Nor beyond our kin,
But our own ancestors,
Who were to them devils and evils.
We are the adivasis,
Where there lived
Democracy and solidarity
With no superiority,
With no Brahmin nobility and purity.
We are the adivasis,
Whose women were
Not pawns or on pyres,
Nor a gift with dowries
But ones who chose their own mates.
We are the adivasis,
Who by Hindu Aryans
Were polluted
And by Christian intruders
Were diluted in our values and principle.
We are the adivasis,
Who want back our throne
Usurped by the invaders,
And who want to undo wrongs
And avenge the Aryan chauvinism.
19.07.2000, Paralakhemundi
[Adhivasi = the aboriginal tribes of India]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Vedic Conversion
The Veda is sacred; its hymens are sacred.
The Veda is holy; its hymns are holy.
We were told to toe; we were led to toe.
The nomadic tribe has brought it with them.
Buddhism was banished; Jainism vanished.
Natives were driven; Dravidians subverted.
It is the Aryans who conquered the continent.
It is the Aryans who remodelled its culture.
Success in war, stealing of cattle,
Love making, illogical rituals,
No moral codes, no benevolent deeds-
These are all the Vada speaks out
Manu codified Varnasrama Dharma.
Manu glorified kings and their style.
Manu crucified women’s interests.
Manu stupefied Sudhras and Dalits.
The Ramayana, an epic, lofted Rama
To a God Incarnation, who killed
Ravana, a Shiva devoee, thus holding
The supremacy of Aryans and Rama.
The Mahabharata tells godliness of Krishna,
Whose crafts in strategy of war
Belies his Geetha’s teachings of doing
Duties with detachment for the end.
Aryan revivalism rears its head.
They are out to eradicate gods
Other than their Rama and Krishna.
They want to make flourish
The Brahmin’s superiority and nobility
Over all indigenous Gods and culture.
11.10.2000
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Pariah - Legend
WATER-FETCHING goes the noble
Brahmin's wife, so pure and lovely;
He is honour'd, void of blemish.
And of justice rigid, stern.
Daily from the sacred river
Brings she back refreshments precious;--
But where is the pail and pitcher?
She of neither stands in need.
For with pure heart, hands unsullied,
She the water lifts, and rolls it
To a wondrous ball of crystal
This she bears with gladsome bosom,
Modestly, with graceful motion,
To her husband in the house.
She to-day at dawn of morning
Praying comes to Ganges' waters,
Bends her o'er the glassy surface--
Sudden, in the waves reflected,
Flying swiftly far above her,
From the highest heavens descending,
She discerns the beauteous form
Of a youth divine, created
By the God's primeval wisdom
In his own eternal breast.
When she sees him, straightway feels she
Wondrous, new, confused sensations
In her inmost, deepest being;
Fain she'd linger o'er the vision,
Then repels it,--it returneth,--
And, perplex'd, she bends her flood-wards
With uncertain hands to draw it;
But, alas, she draws no more!
For the water's sacred billows
Seem to fly, to hasten from her;
She but sees the fearful chasm
Of a whirlpool black disclosed.
Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,
Can this be the pathway homewards?
Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
Can she think, when thought and counsel,
When assistance all are lost?
So before her spouse appears she--
On her looks he--look is judgment--
Proudly on the sword he seizes,
To the hill of death he drags her,
Where delinquents' blood pays forfeit.
What resistance could she offer?
What excuses could she proffer,
Guilty, knowing not her guilt?
And with bloody sword returns he,
Musing, to his silent dwelling,
When his son before him stands:
"Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!"
"The delinquent woman's!"--"Never!
For upon the sword it dries not,
Like the blood of the delinquent;
Fresh it flows, as from the wound.
Mother! mother! hither hasten!
Unjust never was my father,
Tell me what he now hath done."--
"Silence! silence! hers the blood is!"
"Whose, my father?"--"Silence! Silence!"
"What! oh what! my mother's blood!
What her crime? What did she? Answer!
Now, the sword! the sword now hold I;
Thou thy wife perchance might'st slaughter,
But my mother might'st not slay!
Through the flames the wife is able
Her beloved spouse to follow,
And his dear and only mother
Through the sword her faithful son."
"Stay! oh stay!" exclaim'd the father:
"Yet 'tis time, so hasten, hasten!
Join the head upon the body,
With the sword then touch the figure,
And, alive she'll follow thee."
Hastening, he, with breathless wonder,
Sees the bodies of two women
Lying crosswise, and their heads too;
Oh, what horror! which to choose!
Then his mother's head he seizes,--
Does not kiss it, deadly pale 'tis,--
On the nearest headless body
Puts it quickly, and then blesses
With the sword the pious work.
Then the giant form uprises,--
From the dear lips of his mother,
Lips all god-like--changeless--blissful,
Sound these words with horror fraught:
"Son, oh son! what overhast'ning!
Yonder is thy mother's body,
Near it lies the impious head
Of the woman who hath fallen
Victim to the judgment-sword!
To her body I am grafted
By thy hand for endless ages;
Wise in counsel, wild in action,
I shall be amongst the gods.
E'en the heav'nly boy's own image,
Though in eye and brow so lovely,
Sinking downwards to the bosom
Mad and raging lust will stir.
"'Twill return again for ever,
Ever rising, ever sinking,
Now obscured, and now transfigur'd,--
So great Brama hath ordain'd.
He 'twas sent the beauteous pinions,
Radiant face and slender members
Of the only God-begotten,
That I might be proved and tempted;
For from high descends temptation,
When the gods ordain it so.
And so I, the Brahmin woman,
With my head in Heaven reclining,
Must experience, as a Pariah,
The debasing power of earth.
Son, I send thee to thy father!
Comfort him! Let no sad penance,
Weak delay, or thought of merit,
Hold thee in the desert fast
Wander on through ev'ry nation,
Roam abroad throughout all ages,
And proclaim to e'en the meanest,
That great Brama hears his cry!
"None is in his eyes the meanest--
He whose limbs are lame and palsied,
He whose soul is wildly riven,
Worn with sorrow, hopeless, helpless,
Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,
If tow'rd heaven he turns his gaze,
Will perceive, will learn to know it:
Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,
Thousand ears are calmly list'ning,
From which nought below is hid.
"If I to his throne soar upward,
If he sees my fearful figure
By his might transform'd to horror,
He for ever will lament it,--
May it to your good be found!
And I now will kindly warn him,
And I now will madly tell him
Whatsoe'er my mind conceiveth,
What within my bosom heaveth.
But my thoughts, my inmost feelings--
Those a secret shall remain."
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Nalan 2.07 Family Scattered
Go to Vimarasan City
“Oh my dear, listen
Take the two children
To your father’s place.
You can live in peace.”
“For them, it’ll be difficult
To cross the hot dessert.
So, you go with them
And take care of them.”
Like this, the tired Nalan
In the interest of the children
Tried to convince Dhamayanthi,
Who heard it reluctantly.
Difficult to get a lover
She said, “It’s easy to beget
Children, as many as we want,
But it’s difficult to get
A lover of your might.”
Tears flowed in her eyes,
When she said like this.
She was very much upset,
And didn’t like to depart.
Person with no children
“Dhamayanthi! Listen,
A person with no children,
Will never go to heaven,
So, take care of our children.”
Is there one?
“Wealth, one may have,
Or, fame, he may have.
If he has no children
His life is empty then.”
What is the use?
“A person may learn,
All the scriptures even,
Yet, without children,
His life is a waste then.”
Let us go
“She said, “You’ve lost,
Everything to the last,
Let us go to our father
And comfortably live there.”
It is a shameful act
He said, “It’s like begging
Rich people, for our living.
Having lost our wealth
It’ll be an act of filth.”
Not a man, but madman
“A king begging another king
Is it not an unworthy thing?
He’s not a man, but madman
If he does it like a cheap person. “
Send children
She told, “If it’s so,
Let the children go,
And stay with my father,
For their good future.”
Why separate us?
Children tried to impress,
“Why do you send us
To another distant place.
Please don’t separate us.”
She was sad
When the children cried,
She was very much sad.
She hugged them closely
As a mother cried loudly.
Life was taken
A Brahmin led the children,
To the palace of Vimarasan,
While their parents cried,
In their duty, having failed.
Heart broken
With a broken heart,
Behind them Nalan went,
For some distance,
Till their disappearance.
He did not talk to her,
And silently stood there.
Was his fate, the main one,
Or his act caused his ruin?
Thinking and thinking,
He kept on worrying,
His mind became blank,
And he became sick.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Yoga In Gita
Gita provides three ways to bliss.
Devotion to God is Bhakti Yoga.
Dedication to work is Karma Yoga.
Meditation on Supreme is Jnana Yoga.
Bhakti Yoga is for sedentary ones.
Karma Yoga is for energetic ones.
Jnana Yoga is for intellectuals.
Bhakti Yoga is for adults.
Karma Yoga is for youths.
Jnana Yoga is for the old.
Mind, you must perform
Karma Yoga, which gives bread,
Besides Bhakti Yoga and Jnana Yoga
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk
We have opened the door,
Once, twice, thrice!
We have swept the floor,
We have boiled the rice.
Come hither, come hither!
Come from the far lands,
Come from the star lands,
Come as before!
We lived long together,
We loved one another;
Come back to our life.
Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
Child, husband, and wife,
For you we are sighing.
Come take your old places,
Come look in our faces,
The dead on the dying,
Come home!
We have opened the door,
Once, twice, thrice!
We have kindled the coals,
And we boil the rice
For the feast of souls.
Come hither, come hither!
Think not we fear you,
Whose hearts are so near you.
Come tenderly thought on,
Come all unforgotten,
Come from the shadow-lands,
From the dim meadow-lands
Where the pale grasses bend
Low to our sighing.
Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
Come husband and friend,
The dead to the dying,
Come home!
We have opened the door
You entered so oft;
For the feast of souls
We have kindled the coals,
And we boil the rice soft.
Come you who are dearest
To us who are nearest,
Come hither, come hither,
From out the wild weather;
The storm clouds are flying,
The peepul is sighing;
Come in from the rain.
Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
Come husband and lover,
Beneath our roof-cover.
Look on us again,
The dead on the dying,
Come home!
We have opened the door!
For the feast of souls
We have kindled the coals
We may kindle no more!
Snake, fever, and famine,
The curse of the Brahmin,
The sun and the dew,
They burn us, they bite us,
They waste us and smite us;
Our days are but few
In strange lands far yonder
To wonder and wander
We hasten to you.
List then to our sighing,
While yet we are here
Nor seeing nor hearing,
We wait without fearing,
To feel you draw near.
O dead, to the dying
Come home!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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