The birth of our sun

In the seven colours that make light

The sun’s fiery chariot swiftly moves

Towards the equinox, our own thing

In backyard, a cross-square of twigs

That turns a chariot on a bean leaf .

Our rice and milk ,stewed in smoke

Tastes exquisite, like his warm gold.

We love our sun but cannot see him

With naked eyes ,except in a smoke

Or when fully eaten up by our earth.

(rath saptami we celebrate as the day when the sun was born ,with a replica of his chariot with twigs on a bean leaf)