Text
Thig 13:1 Ambapālī
Black was my hair
—the color of bees—
& curled at the tips;
with age, it looked like coarse hemp.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Fragrant, like a perfumed basket
filled with flowers: my coiffure.
With age it smelled musty,
like animal fur.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Thick & lush, like a well-tended grove,
made splendid, the tips elaborate
with comb & pin.
With age, it grew thin
& bald here & there.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Adorned with gold & delicate pins,1
it was splendid, ornamented with braids.
Now, with age,
that head has gone bald.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Curved, as if well-drawn by an artist,
my brows were once splendid.
With age, they droop down in folds.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Radiant, brilliant like jewels,
my eyes: elongated, black—deep black.
With age, they’re no longer splendid.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like a delicate peak, my nose
was splendid in the prime of my youth.
With age, it’s like a long pepper.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like bracelets—well-fashioned, well-finished—
my ears were once splendid.
With age, they droop down in folds.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like plantain buds in their color,
my teeth were once splendid.
With age, they’re broken & yellowed.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like that of a cuckoo in the dense jungle,
flitting through deep forest thickets:
sweet was the tone of my voice.
With age, it cracks here & there.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Smooth2—like a conch shell well-polished—
my neck was once splendid.
With age, it’s broken down, bent.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like rounded door-bars—both of them—
my arms were once splendid.
With age, they’re like dried up pāṭalī trees.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Adorned with gold & delicate rings,
my hands were once splendid.
With age, they’re like onions & tubers.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Swelling, round, firm, & high,
both my breasts were once splendid.
In the drought of old age, they dangle
like empty old water bags.3
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Like a sheet of gold, well-burnished,
my body was splendid.
Now it’s covered with very fine wrinkles.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Smooth in their lines, like an elephant’s trunk,
both my thighs were once splendid.
With age, they’re like knotted bamboo.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Adorned with gold & delicate anklets,
my calves were once splendid.
With age, they’re like sesame sticks.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
As if they were stuffed with soft cotton,
both my feet were once splendid.
With age, they’re shriveled & cracked.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Such was this physical heap,
now: decrepit, the home of pains, many pains.
A house with its plaster all fallen off.
The Truth-speaker’s word
doesn’t change.
Notes
1. Reading saṇha-kaṇḍaka.
2. Reading saṇha-kamburiva with the Burmese and Sinhalese editions.
3. Reading thevikīva with the Burmese and Sinhalese editions.