The Fugitive | Page 6

the sunny hours hovered like butterflies over an unseen flower. I was bewildered and asked everybody I met, "What is that music in the breeze?"
A tramp walked the road whose dress was wild as his manner; he said, "Hark to the music of the Coming!"
I cannot tell why I was convinced, but the words broke from me, "We have not much longer to wait."
"It is close at hand," said the mad man.
I went to the office and boldly said to Mind, "Stop all work!"
Mind asked, "Have you any news?"
"Yes," I answered, "News of the Coming." But I could not explain.
Mind shook his head and said, "There are neither banners nor pageantry!"
III
The night waned, the stars paled in the sky. Suddenly the touchstone of the morning light tinged everything with gold. A cry spread from mouth to mouth--
"Here is the herald!"
I bowed my head and asked, "Is he coming?"
The answer seemed to burst from all sides, "Yes."
Mind grew troubled and said, "The dome of my building is not yet finished, nothing is in order."
A voice came from the sky, "Pull down your building!"
"But why?" asked Mind.
"Because to-day is the day of the Coming, and your building is in the way."
IV
The lofty building lies in the dust and all is scattered and broken.
Mind looked about. But what was there to see?
Only the morning star and the lily washed in dew.
And what else? A child running laughing from its mother's arms into the open light.
"Was it only for this that they said it was the day of the Coming?"
"Yes, this was why they said there was music in the air and light in the sky."
"And did they claim all the earth only for this?"
"Yes," came the answer. "Mind, you build walls to imprison yourself. Your servants toil to enslave themselves; but the whole earth and infinite space are for the child, for the New Life."
"What does that child bring you?"
"Hope for all the world and its joy."
Mind asked me, "Poet, do you understand?"
"I lay my work aside," I said, "for I must have time to understand."
22
TRANSLATIONS
VAISHNAVA SONGS
1
Oh Sakhi,[1] my sorrow knows no bounds.
[Footnote 1: The woman friend of a woman.]
August comes laden with rain clouds and my house is desolate.
The stormy sky growls, the earth is flooded with rain, my love is far away, and my heart is torn with anguish.
The peacocks dance, for the clouds rumble and frogs croak.
The night brims with darkness flicked with lightning.
Vidyapati[2] asks, "Maiden, how are you to spend your days and nights without your lord?"
[Footnote 2: The name of the poet.]
2
Lucky was my awakening this morning, for I saw my beloved.
The sky was one piece of joy, and my life and youth were fulfilled.
To-day my house becomes my house in truth, and my body my body.
Fortune has proved a friend, and my doubts are dispelled.
Birds, sing your best; moon, shed your fairest light!
Let fly your darts, Love-God, in millions!
I wait for the moment when my body will grow golden at his touch.
Vidyapati says, "Immense is your good fortune, and blessed is your love."
3
I feel my body vanishing into the dust whereon my beloved walks.
I feel one with the water of the lake where he bathes.
Oh Sakhi, my love crosses death's boundary when I meet him.
My heart melts in the light and merges in the mirror whereby he views his face.
I move with the air to kiss him when he waves his fan, and wherever he wanders I enclose him like the sky.
Govindadas says, "You are the gold-setting, fair maiden, he is the emerald."
4
My love, I will keep you hidden in my eyes; I will thread your image like a gem on my joy and hang it on my bosom.
You have been in my heart ever since I was a child, throughout my youth, throughout my life, even through all my dreams.
You dwell in my being when I sleep and when I wake.
Know that I am a woman, and bear with me when you find me wanting.
For I have thought and thought and know for certain that all that is left for me in this world is your love, and if I lose you for a moment I die.
Chandidas says, "Be tender to her who is yours in life and death."
5
"Fruit to sell, Fruit to sell," cried the woman at the door.
The Child came out of the house.
"Give me some fruit," said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket.
The fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears.
"Who is the fortunate mother," she cried, "that has clasped you in her arms and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called 'Mother'?"
"Offer your fruit to him," says the poet, "and with it your life."
II
1
Endlessly varied art thou in the exuberant world, Lady of Manifold Magnificence. Thy path is strewn with lights, thy