śrītripurasundarī suprabhātam

Not a remembrance but a waking-song, and the imperative carries its early verses: arise, daughter of the lofty mountain king; arise, mother of the whole world; arise from the jewelled blazing seat; arise, shaking off the ease of Shambhu's embrace; arise, drawing back the curtain. What follows is a temple at first light, set down piece by piece. A rutting elephant trumpets, the mouth-vina sounds the Bhupala raga and the kettledrum answers; devotees come in haste from across Bharata with gold and cloth and fruit, their household ties forgotten; brahmins who have finished the sun-mantra wait with the Shri Sukta and the Rudra chamaka; married women stand in a row with camphor lamps against the evil eye; and the sun, put to shame, rises behind the hill.