[467] 1.
Black were the hairs of my head, like the color of black bees, their tips curling; through aging (jarā) they have become like fibers of hemp-bark. The word of the Speaker of Truth (saccavādī) does not change.
Fragrant as a perfumed casket filled with flowers was that crown of my head; now through aging it has the smell of animal fur. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Thick as a well-planted grove, its ends made beautiful, adorned with comb and hairpins, was my hair; through aging it has grown sparse here and there. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Adorned with delicate scents and gold, arrayed in braids, it was beautiful indeed; through aging this head has been made bald. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like lines well drawn by a painter, my brows were once beautiful indeed; through aging they droop down with wrinkles. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Brilliant and most lovely, like jewels, my eyes were long and deep black; struck down by aging, they are beautiful no more. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like a delicate peak, my nose was beautiful indeed in the very bloom of youth; through aging it is as though shriveled. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like bracelets well wrought and well finished, my earlobes were beautiful indeed before; through aging they droop down with wrinkles. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like the color of plantain buds, my teeth were beautiful indeed before; through aging they are broken and yellow as barley. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Sweet was my warbling, like a cuckoo that ranges the woodland thickets in the forest; through aging it falters here and there. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like a smooth conch shell, well polished, my neck was beautiful indeed before; through aging it is broken and bowed down. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Both my arms were beautiful indeed before, like rounded cross-bars; through aging they have become withered like the pāṭalī tree. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Adorned with gold and delicate signet-rings, my hands were beautiful indeed before; through aging they are like bulbous roots. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Plump, rounded, close-set, and uplifted, both my breasts were beautiful indeed before; now they hang down like water-bags with the water gone. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Like a burnished sheet of gold, my body was beautiful indeed before; now it is covered over with fine wrinkles. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Both my thighs were beautiful indeed before, comparable to an elephant's trunk; through aging they are like stalks of bamboo. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Adorned with gold and delicate anklets, my calves were beautiful indeed before; through aging they are like sticks of sesame. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Both my feet were beautiful indeed before, as though stuffed with cotton-down; through aging they are cracked and wrinkled. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Such was this bodily frame; now decrepit, the abode of many sufferings (dukkha), it is an aged house with its plaster fallen away. The word of the Speaker of Truth does not change.
Ambapālī.
English translation from the Pali (Siam Raṭṭha edition) — under review, not for citation.