Your name was uttered by the Spring flowers and yours by the showers of rain.
You brought the harp into my house and you brought the lamp.
After you had taken your leave I found God’s footprints on my floor.
Now when I am at the end of my pilgrimage I leave in the evening flowers of worship my salutations to you all.
76
I felt I saw your face, and I launched my boat in the dark.
Now the morning breaks in smiles and the spring flowers are in bloom.
Yet should the light fail and the flowers fade I will sail onward.
When you made mute signal to me the world slumbered and the darkness was bare.
Now the bells ring loud and the boat is laden with gold.
Yet should the bells become silent and my boat be empty I will sail onward.
Some boats have gone away and some are not ready, but I will not tarry behind.
The sails have filled, the birds come from the other shore.
Yet, if the sails droop, if the message of the shore be lost, I will sail onward.
77
“Traveller, where do you go?”
“I go to bathe in the sea in the redd’ning dawn, along the tree-bordered path.”
“Traveller, where is that sea?”
“There where this river ends its course, where the dawn opens into morning, where the day droops to the dusk.”
“Traveller, how many are they who come with you?”
“I know not liow to count them.
They are travelling all night with their lamps lit, they are singing all day through land and water.”
“Traveller, liow far is the sea?”
“How far is it we all ask?
The rolling roar of its water swells to the sky when we hush our talk.
It ever seems near yet far.”
“Traveller, the sun is waxing strong.”
“Yes, our journey is long and grievous.
Sing who are weary in spirit, sing who are timid of heart.”
“Traveller, what if the night overtakes you?”
“We shall lie down to sleep till the new morning dawns with its songs, and the call of the sea floats in the air.”
78
Comrade of the road,
Here are my traveller's greetings to thee.
O Lord of my broken heart, of leave taking and loss, of the grey silence of the dayfall,
My greetings of the ruined house to thee!
O Light of the new-born morning,
Sun of the everlasting day.
My greetings of the undying hope to thee!
My guide,
I am a wayfarer of an endless road.
My greetings of a wanderer to thee.
THE FUGITIVE
THE FUGITIVE—I
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