Inside these fragrant garden walls,
a silver river wends along.
Water blossoms nod and sway,
their perfume is so strong -
that fading Sita tries,
to resist their whispered song...

I am called Rhakshasa!

Her tears fall in the hoary dust,
as whispered shadows fade and swoon,
illusion slips from Sita's eyes,
casting silver pearls from the Moon,

On the island of Sri Lanka.

Frost stars gleam in the skies of ink,
the groves are stark and chill.
Sita moves and sways entranced to think,
bending to Ravana's will.

She loses clasp and plaited ties,
her garment shivers, fading still.

Then in the gathering clouds up above,
she sees a form springing down.
Hanuman leaping through
the arms of the storm,
Sita removeth her crown.
She says, "Take this now to Rama -
and escape through yonder trees.
Return with my beloved, and
bring this demon to his knees!
Down to his knees!"

Then in the madness of her art,
the demon has no power...
What feeds upon his mighty heart,
drives him raging into the tower.

No shield or armour of the gods,
will lend surcease to the Crimson Flower