Rama draws back his bow and lets go his arrow;
O were it my Soul liberated from life’s sorrow!
I long to incur that blessing full of such wrath
That my valiant death kisses his feet with mirth.
Ravana was a bastard after my own black heart;
He cut a deal with Mercy that was wholly art:
The Demon-King stole Rama’s beloved Sita
To die by his hand with the gift of Amrita!
O lucky Rakshasa to have deserved the grace
To be killed by the King of the Ikshvaku race!
Tonight the Lord returns with radiant Sita
To the immense happiness of all Ayodhya.
The candle in Darvish’s heart weeps these tears
Of joy that Rama has vanquished Sita’s fears.