He left his weeping father's side,
Exiled and dressed in bark and hide,
With loyal brother, royal wife,
Unfit for brutal forest life,
And walked an unlit stony street
On tender naked lotus feet
And heard above the wailing crowds,
Like thunder from some distant clouds,
An echo ringing in his ears.

The echo rang for fourteen years
Until he came back, riding clouds,
To fireworks, drums and dancing crowds
And walked with weary calloused feet
By rows of lamps on every street,
With no desire for palace life,
With hardened brother, tested wife,
And longed to flee, exile and hide
From the festive faces by his side.

A final time in fourteen years
He heard that echo in his ears.
And finally in fourteen years
He knew that echo in his ears:
The echo of his father's cries —
Those final, fatal, futile cries.

With lamplit face and lotus eyes
Lord Rama watched the endless skies.
The high and wide and endless skies.
The high and wide and godless skies.