O fire, my brother, I sing victory to you.
You are the bright red image of fearful freedom.
You swing your arms in the sky, you sweep your impetuous fingers across the harp-string, your dance music is beautiful.
When my days are ended and the gates are opened you will burn to ashes this cordage of hands and feet.
My body will be one with you, my heart will be caught in the whirls of your frenzy, and the burning heat that was my life will flash up and mingle itself in your flame.
XLI
The Boatman is out crossing the wild sea at night.
The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the violent wind.
Stung with the night's fang the sky falls upon the sea, poisoned with black fear.
The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the
Boatman is out crossing the wild sea.
The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the night with the sudden white of his sails.
I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in the dust and waits.
What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor darkness?
Is it heavy with gems and pearls?
Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white rose in his hand and a song on his lips.
It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning.
She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind and hides her eyes.
The storm shrieks through her broken doors, the light flickers in her earthen lamp flinging shadows on the walls.
Through the howl of the winds she hears him call her name, she whose name is unknown.
It is long since the Boatman sailed. It will be long before the day breaks and he knocks at the door.
The drums will not be beaten and none will know.
Only light shall fill the house, blessed shall be the dust, and the heart glad.
All doubts shall vanish in silence when the Boatman comes to the shore.
XLII
I cling to this living raft, my body, in the narrow stream of my earthly years.
I leave it when the crossing is over. And then?
I do not know if the light there and the darkness are the same.
The Unknown is the perpetual freedom:
He is pitiless in his love.
He crushes the shell for the pearl, dumb in the prison of the dark.
You muse and weep for the days that are done, poor heart!
Be glad that days are to come!
The hour strikes, O pilgrim!
It is time for you to take the parting of the ways!
His face will be unveiled once again and you shall meet.
XLIII
Over the relic of Lord Buddha King Bimbisâr built a shrine, a salutation in white marble.
There in the evening would come all the brides and daughters of the King's house to offer flowers and light lamps.
When the son became king in his time he washed his father's creed away with blood, and lit sacrificial fires with its sacred books.
The autumn day was dying. The evening hour of worship was near.
Shrimati, the queen's maid, devoted to Lord Buddha, having bathed in holy water, and decked the golden tray with lamps and fresh white blossoms, silently raised her dark eyes to the queen's face.
The queen shuddered in fear and said, "Do you not know, foolish girl, that death is the penalty for whoever brings worship to Buddha's shrine?
"Such is the king's will."
Shrimati bowed to the queen, and turning away from her door came and stood before Amitâ, the newly wed bride of the king's son.
A mirror of burnished gold on her lap, the newly wed bride was braiding her dark long tresses and painting the red spot of good luck at the parting of her hair.
Her hands trembled when she saw the young maid, and she cried,
"What fearful peril would you bring me! Leave me this instant."
Princess Shuklâ sat at the window reading her book of romance by the light of the setting sun.
She started when she saw at her door the maid with the sacred offerings.
Her book fell down from her lap, and she whispered in Shrimati's ears, "Rush not to death, daring woman!"
Shrimati walked from door to door. She raised her head and cried, "O women of the king's house, hasten!
"The time for our Lord's worship is come!"
Some shut their doors in her face and some reviled her.
The last gleam of daylight faded from the bronze dome of the palace tower.
Deep shadows settled in street corners: the bustle of the city was hushed: the gong at the temple of Shiva announced the time of the evening prayer.
In the dark of the autumn evening, deep as a limpid lake, stars throbbed with light, when the guards of the palace garden were startled to see through the trees a row of lamps burning at the shrine of Buddha.
They ran with their swords unsheathed, crying, "Who are you, foolish one, reckless of death?"
"I am Shrimati," replied a sweet voice, "the servant of Lord
Buddha."
