Classic Poem

Princess Nunakawa, not yet opening the door, sang from within:
Divine prince of eight thousand spears,
because I am a woman, a pliant grass blade,
my heart is a bird on the shore.
Now I am my own bird,
but later I will be your bird.

Live on — do not ever die!
This is the way the story's told
by the low-running fisherman messenger.
When the sun hides behind the green hills,
night will come, black as leopard-flower seeds.
Then, like the morning sun, come, smiling, blooming!
These arms white as mulberry rope,
breasts youthful as soft snow —
hold them with your bare hands, caress them;
your hand and my hand for a pillow,
we'll sleep, thighs outstretched.
So do not speak with too much love,
divine prince of eight thousand spears.
This is the way the story's told.