The palace of Hishiro
at Makimuku
is a palace where shines
the morning sun,
is a palace where is brilliant
the evening sun,
is a palace where the roots
of the bamboo are plentiful and abundant,
is a palace where the roots
of the trees are long and extended,
is a palace built
pounding much foundation soil.

By the palace of wood
of flourishing hi trees,
the Hall of New Grain,
there is growing
a luxuriant
tsuki tree:
its upper branches
spread out covering the heavens;
its middle branches
spread out covering the eastern lands;
its lower branches
spread out covering the country regions.

The leaves at the tip
of the upper branches
touch down
on the middle branches;
the leaves at the tip
of the middle branches
touch down
on the lower branches;
the leaves at the tip
of the lower branches
drop, as floating oil,
into a beautiful jeweled cup
presented
by the girl of Mie
of the silken garments —
and falling into the liquid,
the waters churning,
churning around:
this, too —
how awesome,
O high-shining
Prince of the Sun.

These are
the words,
the words handed down. And so, when she had presented this song, he forgave her offense.