Blindness could not take away his might,
A soul in music took its flight,
Sri Sarabha Sastri, with the flute in hand,
Brought forth a magic, graceful, grand.
Born to Viswanatha and Dharmambal’s care,
His heart was bound by uncle Kuppuswamy Sastri’s music’s air,
Guided by Manambuchavadi Venkatasubbayyar,
He rose in melody, higher and higher.
A genius musician, his fingers knew,
How to coax from the flute, the raga’s hue,
Every note, every scale, with a soulful tone,
He made the flute a voice of its own.
In Sanskrit’s embrace, he carved a way,
Composed over five hundred, night and day,
For Nayanmars’ stories, he wove in sound,
His music’s echo forever profound.
Kritis full-fledged, with raga’s might,
Each swara a beacon in the silent night,
Through Sarabha’s fingers, the raga grew,
A path in music, vibrant and true.
Sri Sarabha, in your silent eyes,
The world of music found its skies,
With every breath of every carnatic flute,
Your legacy lives on, absolute.