I bow to the root of the tree of righteousness, which springs from the ocean of discernment, radiant as the full moon and a bringer of bliss. To the sun that makes the lotus of detachment bloom, dispelling the darkness of sin and the heat of suffering. To Shiva, self-born, who shatters the clouds of delusion, and to the lineage of Brahma, which removes all stain and is beloved of King Rama.

I adore Rama, whose form is like a raincloud dense with bliss, clad in yellow robes, beautiful to behold. In his hand he holds bow and arrow, his waist adorned with a splendid quiver. His eyes are wide as lotus petals, his matted locks shining with glory. Accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana, he walks the forest path, enchanting all who see him.

Uma, the deep virtues of Rama are grasped by sages and wise men, who find in them the root of detachment. But the foolish, turned away from Hari, find only delusion and no love for righteousness.

In the city, I have sung of Bharata’s love for his brother, each mind finding its own unique delight. Now, listen to the most sacred tale of the Lord, whose deeds in the forest gladden gods, men, and sages alike.

Once, Rama chose a lovely flower and, with his own hand, made it into an ornament. He gently adorned Sita with it, and they sat together upon a crystal rock, radiant in their beauty.

The son of Indra, taking the form of a crow, wished to test the strength of Rama, foolishly desiring to measure the ocean like an ant. With a wicked mind, he struck at Sita’s foot and then fled, his heart filled with folly.

Blood flowed, and Rama saw what had happened. He took up a blade of grass, made it his arrow, and prepared to shoot.

Rama, ever compassionate and loving to the lowly, was thus deceived by the crow, whose very nature was folly and deceit.

Urged by fate, the enchanted grass-arrow sped after the crow, who, terrified, fled in every direction.

Assuming his true form, he went to his father for refuge, but none could protect one who had turned against Rama.

Despair filled his heart, and terror grew, as if he were a sage cursed by Durvasa’s wrath.

He wandered all the worlds—Brahma’s realm, Shiva’s city—exhausted, fearful, and sorrowful, but found no place to rest.

Nowhere could he sit or stay, for who can shelter one who is an enemy of Rama?

Mother, father, even the nectar of life becomes poison to one whom Hari has rejected.

A friend acts as a foe, and the heavenly river becomes the river of death for such a one.

The whole world burns hotter than fire for him who turns away from Raghuvir—hear this, my brother.

Narada saw the distraught Jayanta and, moved by compassion, sent him at once to Rama, calling out, “Go, seek refuge in