Fog clings to the lush emerald slopes,

Forests among the clouds,

Rivulets carve through ancient trees,

Hurling their waters over the dark rocks.

The power of water echoes

the unbridled confidence of kings and queens.

It roars triumphantly,

As it rockets over the cliffside.

In the parched summers, the falls dwindle,

their waters curbed by dams,

to quench the arid fields and fill pots with life-giving drink.

The river meanders on, quiet now.

People gather in throngs to marvel,

at the torrential rushing thundering water.

Yet they continue to harness this power

and wonder why the falls have lost their spirit.

Four cascades, shimmering silvery-blue,

Sometimes dull, sometimes burning with life.

Rainbows dance on the foaming waters,

Birds dive through the mist to catch the thrashing fish.

The Sharavathi frolicks through sunbeams,

Glittering like dragon’s scales,

Her gleeful laughter drowned out in the roar

as she tumbles blithely through forests of old.