Poetry Analysis

In Ancient Kotmale

Original Poetry

Translation

In Ancient Kotmale

In the lovely region of Kotmale, I will build my house with bricks made from good soil. I'll use wood from the echoing forests and cover it with flat tiles, like the hands of farmers.

by Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

In the morning, I'll see the sun, hurt like my heart with many arrows, rise between the mountains and spread its golden light in the green valley.

I'll go to the fields in different seasons, sowing grain with a stream flowing through my hands. I'll throw the grain like falling nets, and it will grow around the legs of young women from the green clay.

In the beautiful principality, in Kotmale

In the hot fields under passing clouds, as I rest in those almost endless days, my awaited harvest will come in the time marked by green calendars.

I will build my house of the good soil’s brick

With the timber of the ringing forests,

And I will cover it with the tiles flat,

One on one, as the palms of the farmers –

And in the morning will I see

The sun wounded as my heart with a million arrows,

Rise between the mountain ranges

And spread in the green valley its golden blood.

And I will go into the fields in the seasons –

I will sow the grain, a stream between my hands,

I will cast the grain in falling nets,

And it will stream up round the calves of maidens

From the viridian fire of that clay.

And in the kilns of my sun-wed fields,

And under the haven of passing clouds

As I repose, in those almost everlasting days,

In the time ordained, in green calendars

Will come my yearned harvest.

Explanation

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Poetry Analysis

In Ancient Kotmale

Original Poetry

Translation

In Ancient Kotmale

In the lovely region of Kotmale, I will build my house with bricks made from good soil. I'll use wood from the echoing forests and cover it with flat tiles, like the hands of farmers.

by Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

In the morning, I'll see the sun, hurt like my heart with many arrows, rise between the mountains and spread its golden light in the green valley.

In the beautiful principality, in Kotmale

In the hot fields under passing clouds, as I rest in those almost endless days, my awaited harvest will come in the time marked by green calendars.

I will build my house of the good soil’s brick

With the timber of the ringing forests,

And I will cover it with the tiles flat,

One on one, as the palms of the farmers –

And in the morning will I see

The sun wounded as my heart with a million arrows,

Rise between the mountain ranges

And spread in the green valley its golden blood.

And I will go into the fields in the seasons –

I will sow the grain, a stream between my hands,

I will cast the grain in falling nets,

And it will stream up round the calves of maidens

From the viridian fire of that clay.

And in the kilns of my sun-wed fields,

And under the haven of passing clouds

As I repose, in those almost everlasting days,

In the time ordained, in green calendars

Will come my yearned harvest.

Explanation

The analysis could not be parsed. Please try again with a different poem.

Word Dictionary

—

Poet & Context

Poet—

Era—

Themes & More

Themes

Literary devices