The Good Book_ A Secular Bible - A. C. Grayling [89]
‘Lower your head! Within this garden
Many as fair as you have bloomed and died!’
Laughing she replied,
‘That I am born to fade does not grieve me.
But you do wrong to vex with bitter words
The moment when I am most myself.’
The tavern step shall be your hostelry,
Love’s riches come only to those
Who supplicate on its dusty threshold
The ruby-red wine that flows
From life’s jewelled goblet; otherwise
A thousand tears will thread your eyelashes
For such temerity as denies
That love in the fallen rose’s petal lies.
Last night when the garden slept
In the silver arms of the moon,
A breeze stole through its alleys
And lifted the hyacinth’s purple head.
‘Where is the cup, the mirror of the world?
Where is love, like the wakened rose
Blossoming in the garden where its kind
Bloomed and died, so many, before?’
The breeze knew not; but sighed, ‘Alas!
That happiness should sleep so long.’
Love’s secret does not dwell on the lips of men;
Its place is secret and unrevealed. O friend!
Come where there is idle laughter, where wine
Graces the feast: patience and wisdom are launched
On a sea of tears, and soon we must sleep without end.
57
Light of my eyes and harvest of my heart,
Mine at least in changeless memory!
When you found it easy to leave, what you left
Was the harder journey for us to take.
Oh you who stand by, help me lift my load,
Let pity be the comrade of my road!
If only life could re-enter at the deserted door,
And the cold body breathe again and burn;
Come! touch my eyes; I am blind to all
But your face; open their gates and let me see
By the love we bore each other, and its grace,
Once more your face.
58
You ask why I live in the green mountain;
I smile but stay silent, for my heart is free.
As the leaves of the peach tree float downstream
To distant places unknown,
As the hummingbird flashes away to the woods,
And smoke curls up to the clouds,
I go likewise, and am found no more:
Neither in the villages of the plain
Nor the habitations of men;
But live high with the winds
Where all five directions are visible at once,
Alone, without a care.
59
There are no coins in my pocket, and a flagon of wine
Costs as much as an estate to one who is poor.
A plate of food costs even more; but what does it matter?
I cannot eat, even if I had bowl and spoon.
I would cross the river, but ice has stopped the ferry;
I would climb the mountain, but the pass is blocked with snow;
I would sit by the pond and fish, lazy in the afternoon,
But suddenly I dream of flying to the sun.
It is hard to journey, hard, for there are so many turnings:
Which shall I take?
I will climb on the wind one day and ride,
Over the heavy waves, with a cloud for a sail,
And cross the deep sea to other lands.
60
In the capital as the year draws to a close
A great snowfall cloaks the palace courtyard,
And through the blizzard, on their way from court,
In fine crimson robes the dukes and barons ride.
They can enjoy the snowfall’s beauty and bracing wind;
To the rich they do not signify hunger and cold.
At a grand gate the riders and coaches gather,
Candles are lit in the tower and music spills out,
Happy guests press knee to knee,
Warmed by wine they open their fur coats
To show off silk linings and silver buttons.
The host is a high dignitary of the Punishments Board,
The guest of honour is the Minister of Justice.
It was dusk when the feasting and music began,
Now it is past midnight, and the revel continues.
What do they care that in the gaol tonight
The prisoners are freezing to death?
61
Yesterday the villagers pitched a tent on the green,
Brought their hogs and calves to sell;
Their wives laid out cakes and flower displays,
And when dusk fell they lit a bonfire
To roast a pig on a spit,
Lifting their beer mugs, talking quietly while the spit turned,
Themselves turning over gossip and old news.
In the strong firelight they ate when the roast was ready,
Faces gleaming,
And in the shadows the fiddler tuned his fiddle for the