Classic Poem

Whether you have him killed, whether you let him go free,
is something you yourself will judge, knowing which choice
will bring you renown. Within the high walls of the king's city,
within his guarded palace grounds, a sound can be heard from all
the groves outside, as they chop down the trees that had been protected
and the long branches fragrant with flowers lie isolate,
their former glory lost, cut off by the ax with the long handle
and handsome blade filed sharp by a smith with blackened hands;
and the white sand by the cool An Porunai River flies up as they fall,
while women with elegant anklets and small bracelets exquisitely turned
play on a dais with beans made of gold. And that king sits there,
taking his ease. To bother fighting against him here
to the sound of your drum with its garland like a rainbow would be shameful!