Classic Poem

Your eyes half closed with desire, you bring your chariot to a halt
and stare at her tender beauty while she walks on the sand
swept in by the ocean, resplendent in a golden garland
and her belt-string of gold studded with many jewels and wrought
faultlessly by a master smith, O lord of victorious battles!
and you ask and you ask and you do not stop asking,
“Whose daughter is she?” I will tell you now if you will listen.
She is a daughter to a king of ancient lineage, who always
gives food daily to his young men with strong bows, the rice
drawn from towering mounds that are threshed in the early morning
through leveling the many stacks that rise up like mountains.
To great kings of ancient lineage who came and yesterday asked
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . with their sharp-tipped spears, scars
on the blades after they have killed with them on the battlefield
where they made blood flow, and their wounds
cotton cannot staunch, fearsome are her older brothers!