Thig 13:1  Ambapālī

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.