Classic Poem

The leaves plucked to make the curry will wither. The wood
carried in for fuel will dry out. The city now ruled
by that great being whose dark wife is as soft and lovely
as a peacock, that rich city where a small bird, beside his mate
with her colorless crest, a black-throated male living in the eaves
of a house eats rice from paddy that was grown in a broad field
while resting in his nest made of shavings from the lute strings
of bards and the hair of lions that seems
like frayed peacock feathers—that city will go hungry should the king perish!