LXXXV

THE SONG OF THE DEFEATED

MY Master has bid me while I stand at the roadside, to sing the song of Defeat, for that is the bride whom He woos in secret.

She has put on the dark veil, hiding her face from the crowd, but the jewel glows on her breast in the dark.

She is forsaken of the day, and God's night is waiting for her with its lamps lighted and flowers wet with dew.

She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind.

But the stars are singing the love-song of the eternal to a face sweet with shame and suffering.

The door has been opened in the lonely chamber, the call has sounded, and the heart of the darkness throbs with awe because of the coming tryst.

LXXXVI

THANKSGIVING

THOSE who walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under their tread, covering the tender green of the earth with their footprints in blood;

Let them rejoice, and thank thee, Lord, for the day is theirs.

But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer and bear the burden of power, and hide their faces and stifle their sobs in the dark.

For every throb of their pain has pulsed in the secret depth of thy night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great silence. And the morrow is theirs.

O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.

The Fugitive

1


Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnant
space frets into eddying bubbles of light.

Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across his immeasurable
loneliness?

Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangled
tresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path as
from a broken necklace?


Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweeping
aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes the
sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth.

Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble
into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least
speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an
unbearable pressure.


My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the
anklets of light are shaken.

They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm
of the ancient sea.

I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form
to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings
and songs.


The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire,
my heart!

Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towards
limitless light.

2


We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads I stop to bid
you farewell.

Your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by ways
from the unknown.

I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the stars to where day breaks
behind the hills; I shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days
into a wreath on a single thread of song, "I love."

3


It was growing dark when I asked her, "What strange land have I come to?"

She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar,
as she walked away.

The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it
already belonged to the past.

The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against
the water-jar from down the lane.


Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,--for I love the look of this
land.

The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the
marble landing haunts the dark water.

Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into
the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet
tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the
lane littered with leaves.

The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums
wearily.

Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.

Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where
darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a
water-jar.

4


O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds--a
secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.

O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that
doze in the sun.

The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the
cause of my tears.

I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from
me.

5


For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;
wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in
mist.

Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,
where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water
heaves in the troubled sea.

Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be
stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.

6


Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that
metaphor, "Flowers are the footprints of summer."

They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be
erased by a passing breeze.

Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the
everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.

7


I am like the night to you, little flower.

I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.

When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum
with bees, and songful with birds.

My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it
will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the
pitiless mirth of day.

8


Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret.
It is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red by
passion.

What gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust?

I fear, if I accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by the
loss of all I have.

Do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame my
destitute life.