Black was my hair
-- the color of bees --
& curled at the tips;
with age, it looked like coarse hemp.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Fragrant, like a perfumed basket
filled with flowers: my coiffure.
With age it smelled musty,
like animal fur.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Thick & lush, like a well-tended grove,
made splendid, the tips elaborate
with comb & pin.
With age, it grew thin
& bare here & there.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Adorned with gold & delicate pins,
it was splendid, ornamented with braids.
Now, with age,
that head has gone bald.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Radiant, brilliant like jewels,
my eyes: elongated, black -- deep black.
With age, they're no longer splendid.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Like bracelets -- well-fashioned, well-finished --
my ears were once splendid.
With age, they droop down in folds.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Like plaintain buds in their color,
my teeth were once splendid.
With age, they're broken & yellowed.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Smooth -- like a conch shell well-polished --
my neck was once splendid.
With age, it's broken down, bent.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Like rounded door-bars -- both of them --
my arms were once splendid.
With age, they're like dried up patali trees.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Adorned with gold & delicate rings,
my hands were once splendid.
With age, they're like onions & tubers.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Like a sheet of gold, well-burnished,
my body was splendid.
Now it's covered with very fine wrinkles.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
Adorned with gold & delicate anklets,
my calves were once splendid.
With age, they're like sesame sticks.
The truth of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
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 of the Truth-speaker's words
doesn't change.
For a long time, father,
you've quizzed me
about contemplatives.
I'll praise to you
their discernment,
virtue,
endeavor.
They do like to work,
they're not lazy.
They do the best work:
They abandon
passion & anger.
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
They rid themselves
of the three evil roots,[1]
doing pure actions.
All their evil's
abandoned.
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Clean
their bodily action,
so is their verbal
action.
Clean their mental
action:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Spotless, like mother of pearl,
pure within & without,
perfect in clear qualities:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Learned, maintaining the
Dhamma,
noble, living the Dhamma,
they teach the goal
& the Dhamma:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Learned, maintaining the
Dhamma,
noble, living the Dhamma,
with unified minds
& mindful:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Traveling far, mindful,
giving counsel unruffled,
they discern the end
of suffering:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
When they leave any village
they don't turn to look back
at anything.
How free from concern
they go!
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
They don't store in a granary,
pot,
or basket.
They hunt [only]
for what's already cooked:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
They take neither silver,
nor gold,
nor money.
They live off whatever is present:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
Having gone forth
from different families
& from different countries,
still they hold
one another dear:
That's why I hold
contemplatives dear.
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