Oh, how pitiful is the sacred Singha, built by our ancestors
Once so lively, as if brimming with movement.
Now broken, collapsed upon the earth
What a tragedy, to see you rendered powerless.
There are the mindless ones from the jungle,Once so lively, as if brimming with movement.
Now broken, collapsed upon the earth
What a tragedy, to see you rendered powerless.
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| Lion at Angkor Wat Source: De loin en large |
Sharpening their knives and weapons.
Bringing damage and destruction,
Showing no grief for ancient works lost.
Oh Singha, why do you stand, unseeing?
Let them whet their blades upon your back?
Why not awaken in anger and fierce,
To strike them down and grant them death?
Which fool has shattered our ancestors’ Singha?
Brainless, without the least understanding.
Was it not built with toil to be our legacy?
And now the enemy ruins what was theirs.
Looking at the stones, aligned in gentle span,
forming a steadfast board, bound deep to earth.
Even should an elephant cross, they would not move,
though some have shrunk with time, but still we can walk on.
The handrail carved as the King of Nagas,
ten heads unfurl like glumes upon one body.
Its hood flares open, fierce and proud,
the coils revealed, united in their might.
Gazing at the Naga, fierce and strong,
its body stretched long, head guarding the doors.
It slithers along the bridge, footrests skimming the water,
its tail forks, tracing paths across the crossing.
Oh, the statue of Viasugrīva, unafraid of Garuda,
displaying your might before the foe.
Should the Garuda descend, you would not linger,
you’d leap into the moat to escape.
Oh, ancient Naga, crafted by the hands of old,
how wondrous your beauty, from the dawn of time.
Yet now you lie broken, fallen to the ground,
and in this state, your grace is lost to view.
The body and head have fallen, torn apart,
leaving only the pedestal to stand.
Oh, how sad the work of our ancestors,
not meant to endure through eternity.
Oh, such sorrow for the life of the stone Naga,
a testament meant to last for eternity.
Though not yet aged, it now meets tragedy,
fallen to pieces, scattered on the ground.
Suttantaprija Ind (1859 - 1924) Cambodia
Translated by Ly Team Teng
Source: Angkor Database
(Viasugrīva — likely, the writer actually meant Vāsuki, the king of the nāgas.)
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