13.1 Ambapālī Therī (252-270)

“The speaker of truth” refers to the Buddha.

Norman

252. My hair was black, like the colour of bees, with curly ends; because of old age it is like bark fibres of hemp; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

253. Covered with flowers my head was fragrant like a perfumed box; now because of old age it smells like dog’s fur; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

254. Thick as a well-planted grove, made beautiful, having the ends parted by comb and pin; because of old age it is thin here and there; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

255. Possessing fine pins, decorated with gold, adorned with plaits, it looked beautiful; because of old age that head has been made bald; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

256. Formerly my eyebrows looked beautiful, like crescents well painted by artists; because of old age they droop down with wrinkles; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

257. My eyes were shining, very brilliant like jewels, very black and long; overwhelmed by old age they do not look beautiful; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

258. In the bloom of my youth my nose looked beautiful like a delicate peak; because of old age it is like a flower-spike of long pepper; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

259. My ear-lobes looked beautiful, like well-fashioned and well-finished bracelets; because of old age they droop down with wrinkles; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

260. Formerly my teeth looked beautiful, like the colour of the bud of the plaintain; because of old age they are broken indeed and yellow; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

261. Sweet was my warbling, like a cuckoo wandering in the grove in a jungle-thicket; because of old age it has faltered here and there; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

262. Formerly my neck looked beautiful like a well-rubbed delicate conch-shell; because of old age it is broken and bowed-down; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

263. Formerly both my arms looked beautiful, like round crossbars; because of old age they are weak as the Pāṭalī tree; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

264. Formerly my hands looked beautiful, with delicate signer rings, decorated with gold; because of old age they are like onions and radishes; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

265. Formerly both my breasts looked beautiful, swelling, round, close together, lofty; now they hang down like empty water-bags; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

266. Formerly my body looked beautiful, like a well-polished sheet of gold; now it is covered with very fine wrinkles; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

267. Formerly both my thighs looked beautiful like an elephant’s trunk; because of old age they are like stalks of bamboo; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

268. Formerly my calves looked beautiful, possessing delicate anklets, decorated with gold; because of old age they are like sticks of sesame; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

269. Formerly both my feet looked beautiful, like shoes full of cotton wool; because of old age they are cracked and wrinkled; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

270. Such was this body; now it is decrepit, the abode of many pains; an old house, with its plaster fallen off; not false is the utterance of the speaker of truth.

Weingast

All the hairs on my body

used to buzz like black bees

whenever I was touched.

Now they’re like the hairs on dead bark.

This is the story

of how one thing

changes into another.

I used to wear flowers in my hair.

Hours after I walked by,

you could take a deep breath

and know I had passed that way.

These days I still leave some scent behind.

But most would rather I didn’t.

My hair used to flow down like a black silk river.

My body was a port for all travelers.

But those waters have long since dried up,

and ships plan their routes around other stops.

Things change.

They just do.

My eyes were once deep dark pools.

Men got lost in them.

That’s how I remember it now, anyway.

It’s hard to know what’s true

and what to believe in,

when true beauty

so quickly turns

into this.

How did such a perfect nose

turn into this funny little potato?

And what’s the point of earlobes?

Are they just there to hang trinkets from?

You out there. Do you have teeth?

Are they white or yellow?

Straight or crooked?

Sooner or later, they’re all coming out.

That’s just how it is.

These hands once danced and played

like two sisters on a stage.

Now they sit around all day

like peppers drying and cracking in the sun.

How could we have let it matter so much—

knowing that someday it would all come to this?

You were beautiful once.

Or maybe you’re still beautiful.

Tell me.

Where will you go when it all falls apart?

But maybe you’re not ready just yet

to take to the open road all alone.

For now,

just see the body

as a house you’re renting

for a short time.

Make the heart your home.

Please.

Stop telling yourself

you have all the time in the world

to change your life.

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