O fair maiden of Achagiriya’s heights,
Radiant jewel of Aparakamsa’s land—
I stumble beneath the desert sun,
Scorched and weary, bearing a message.
You have trusted the whispers of others,
And now prepare for your bridal journey.
O god of the Veethakasma line,
Though I poured offerings at your feet,
You shattered the temple of my dreams.
Now even I begin to crumble—
Still I wander beneath the burning sky,
Stumbling, burdened with my message,
Convinced my heart has done no wrong.
You were the pearl upon Manawamma’s crown,
The queen of valleys veiled in cool mist.
Yet your faith is given to hawks of deceit,
Their claws wrapped around your gentle trust.
And I, still burning in the desert sun,
Carry this message in trembling hands:
That even your wedding’s sacred hour
Is carved within the words I bear.
One day, fate will draw us face to face.
On that day, may sorrow not touch your eyes.
For the fault lies not in you but in me.
Still I wander beneath the pitiless sun,
Stumbling, weary, carrying this truth:
That your wedding is prepared—without me.
