Siri Deri Mal Uyane

In the glorious flower garden
amid twig and tendril, twig and tendril,
runs the bee-vine

In the forest of the Himalayan peaks
ever and ever, ever and ever,
runs the kinnara-vine

Everywhere in the flower grove
dancing there, dancing there,
is the woman-vine

The beings who see it are enraptured
lovely clusters, lovely clusters,
the woman-vine

Giving voice to the wind
gold and silver, gold and silver,
runs the gem-vine

Like a mansion in the city of the gods
its fragrance to all ten directions, to all ten directions,
spreads and drifts away

Like celestial maidens dancing
swaying their arms, swaying their arms,
runs the omari-vine

Even a great ascetic could not be there
for if he stayed, if he stayed,
his vow of celibacy would break

This is an ornate, playful piece of classical Sinhala poetry, a lavish word-painting of a mythical flower garden so beautiful it is almost dangerous. Its whole delight is in a parade of magical vines, latā, one per verse: the bamaru latā (bee-vine), the kinduru latā (kinnara-vine, named for the celestial bird-people), the gold-and-silver “gem-vine,” the omari vine, and, again and again, the naari latā, the “woman-vine.”

That woman-vine is the key to the song. The naari-lata is a famous plant of Buddhist and Hindu legend, a creeper said to bloom with blossoms shaped like beautiful women, so lifelike that they seem to dance. The song piles up the enchantment: everywhere the flowers “dance,” those who see them are “enraptured,” gold-and-silver gem-vines “give voice to the wind,” and the whole garden is “like a mansion in the city of the gods,” its fragrance spreading “to all ten directions.” It is paradise rendered in jewelled, deliberately archaic language.

The last verse delivers the sly punchline the whole poem has been building toward. This garden is so overwhelmingly, sensually beautiful that “even a great ascetic could not be there, for if he stayed, his vow of celibacy would break.” It is the old idea that supreme beauty is a test even the most disciplined sage cannot pass, told here with a wink. What the listener is left with is not a love story or a lament but pure aesthetic pleasure, a connoisseur’s celebration of beauty so complete it could undo a saint.