Ranwan Watha

Your golden face is shining
Flower after flower, your soft smile opens
You move with the grace of the nari-latha (a legendary vine whose blossoms take the shape of a beautiful woman), lifting each step
The moon cuts past the hill and leans out to see you
Glowing bright, spreading its shafts of light along the edge of the sky
Glowing bright, spreading its shafts of light along the edge of the sky

Gems, pearls, jewels and silver are not what I am looking for
Fine soft cloth and clothing are not the prize I want
It is your heart I long for, day and night, always
That is where I am living

Your golden face is shining
Flower after flower, your soft smile opens
You move with the grace of the nari-latha, lifting each step
The moon cuts past the hill and leans out to see you
Glowing bright, spreading its shafts of light along the edge of the sky

Because of your beauty the flowers open on the vine and on the lake
Because of your voice the swallow, the parrot and the dove call out
It is your heart I long for, day and night, always
I am the only one who knows this

Your golden face….

A man stands looking at the woman he loves and cannot find an ordinary way to say what he sees, so he reaches for the oldest pictures Sinhala poetry keeps for this: gold, a flowering vine, moonlight over a hill. Karunarathna Abeysekara wrote it in that older, elegant register, closer to a court poem than to everyday speech, and the song carries that polish in every line.

Two of the images will pass a listener by without a gloss. The nari-latha is a vine from legend whose blossoms are said to open in the shape of a beautiful woman, and in classical verse it is the standard way of praising how a woman carries herself, all curve and sway rather than plain walking. Chandrasika is the moon, and here it does something charming: instead of the woman being compared to the moon, the moon comes down over the hill and peers out to look at her, then spills its light along the edge of the sky as if it cannot help itself. He has quietly made her the reason the night is bright.

Then the song turns, and this is the part that gives it its weight. He lists what he is not after, gems, pearls, silver, fine cloth. Anyone who grew up around Sinhala marriage talk knows why that list is there, because gold and cloth and what a family can bring were the usual currency of a match. He pushes all of it aside and asks for one thing, her heart, day and night, and then says the line the whole song was built for: that is where I am living. His whole life is already sitting inside her affection.

The last verse widens out. Flowers open on the vine and on the water because of her beauty, and the swallow, the parrot and the dove sing because of her voice, so the world is borrowing everything lovely it has from her. He closes softly, saying he is the only one who knows this, and the boast folds into something private and tender. He is not asking anyone else to see her the way he does. He would rather keep it.