Сбор Плодов 20-40

XX
СДЕЛАЙ меня своим поэтом, О Ночь, скрытая Ночь!

Есть люди, которые веками сидели безмолвно в твоей тени; позволь мне петь их песни.

Возьми меня на свою колесницу без колес, неслышно бегущую из мира в мир, ты, царица во дворце времени, ты, темная красавица!

Многие вопрошающие умы тайком входили в твой двор и бродили по твоему дому без фонарей в поисках ответов.

Из многих сердец, пронзенных стрелой радости из рук Неведомого, вырвались радостные песнопения, потрясая тьму до основания.

Эти бодрствующие души смотрят в звездном свете с удивлением на сокровище, которое они внезапно нашли.

Сделай меня их поэтом, О Ночь, поэтом твоей бездонной тишины.

XXI
I will meet one day the Life within me, the joy that hides in my life, though the days perplex my path with their idle dust.

I have known it in glimpses, and its fitful breath has come upon me, making my thoughts fragrant for a while.

I will meet one day the Joy without me that dwells behind the screen of light—and will stand in the overflowing solitude where all things are seen as by their creator.

XXII
This autumn morning is tired with excess of light, and if your songs grow fitful and languid give me your flute awhile.

I shall but play with it as the whim takes me,—now take it on my lap, now touch it with my lips, now keep it by my side on the grass.

But in the solemn evening stillness I shall gather flowers, to deck it with wreaths, I shall fill it with fragrance; I shall worship it with the lighted lamp.

Then at night I shall come to you and give you back your flute.

You will play on it the music of midnight when the lonely crescent moon wanders among the stars.

XXIII
The poet’s mind floats and dances on the waves of life amidst the voices of wind and water.

Now when the sun has set and the darkened sky draws upon the sea like drooping lashes upon a weary eye it is time to take away his pen, and let his thoughts sink into the bottom of the deep amid the eternal secret of that silence.

XXIV
The night is dark and your slumber is deep in the hush of my being.

Wake, O Pain of Love, for I know not how to open the door, and I stand outside.

The hours wait, the stars watch, the wind is still, the silence is heavy in my heart.

Wake, Love, wake! brim my empty cup, and with a breath of song ruffle the night.

XXV
The bird of the morning sings.

Whence has he word of the morning before the morning breaks, and when the dragon night still holds the sky in its cold black coils?

Tell me, bird of the morning, how, through the twofold night of the sky and the leaves, he found his way into your dream, the messenger out of the east?

The world did not believe you when you cried, “The sun is on his way, the night is no more.”

O sleeper, awake!

Bare your forehead, waiting for the first blessing of light, and sing with the bird of the morning in glad faith.

XXVI
The beggar in me lifted his lean hands to the starless sky and cried into night’s ear with his hungry voice.

His prayers were to the blind Darkness who lay like a fallen god in a desolate heaven of lost hopes.

The cry of desire eddied round a chasm of despair, a wailing bird circling its empty nest.

But when morning dropped anchor at the rim of the East, the beggar in me leapt and cried:

“Blessed am I that the deaf night denied me—that its coffer was empty.”

He cried, “O Life, O Light, you are precious! and precious is the joy that at last has known you!”

XXVII
Санатана читал четки на берегу Ганги, когда к нему подошел Брахман в лохмотьях и сказал: “Помоги мне, я беден!”

-Моя чаша для подаяния-это все, что принадлежит мне, - сказал Санатан. - Я отдал все, что имел.”

“Но мой господь Шива явился мне во сне, - сказал Брахман, “и посоветовал прийти к тебе.”

Санатан вдруг вспомнил, что подобрал бесценный камень среди гальки на берегу реки и, думая, что он кому-то может понадобиться, спрятал его в песке.

Он указал это место брахману, и тот с удивлением откопал камень.

Брахман сидел на земле и размышлял в одиночестве, пока солнце не скрылось за деревьями, а пастухи не ушли домой со своим скотом.

Затем он встал, медленно подошел к Санатану и сказал: “Учитель, дай мне хотя бы малую часть богатства, которое презирает все богатства мира.”

И он бросил драгоценный камень в воду.

XXVIII
Раз за разом я подходил к твоим воротам с поднятыми руками, прося еще и еще.

Вы давали и давали, то в медленной мере, то в внезапном избытке.

Что-то я брал, что-то ронял; что-то тяжко лежало на моих руках; что-то я делал игрушками и ломал их, когда уставал; пока обломки и сокровища твоих подарков не становились огромными, скрывая тебя, и непрестанное ожидание изнуряло мое сердце.

Бери, о бери,—теперь это стало моим криком.

Разбей все вдребезги из чаши этого нищего; погаси этот светильник назойливого наблюдателя; держи мои руки, подними меня из все еще собирающейся кучи твоих даров в голую бесконечность твоего безлюдного присутствия.

XXIX
You have set me among those who are defeated.

I know it is not for me to win, nor to leave the game.

I shall plunge into the pool although but to sink to the bottom.

I shall play the game of my undoing.

I shall stake all I have and when I lose my last penny I shall stake myself, and then I think I shall have won through my utter defeat.

XXX
A smile of mirth spread over the sky when you dressed my heart in rags and sent her forth into the road to beg.

She went from door to door, and many a time when her bowl was nearly full she was robbed.

At the end of the weary day she came to your palace gate holding up her pitiful bowl, and you came and took her hand and seated her beside you on your throne.

XXXI
“Who among you will take up the duty of feeding the hungry?” Lord Buddha asked his followers when famine raged at Shravasti.

Ratn;kar, the banker, hung his head and said, “Much more is needed than all my wealth to feed the hungry.”

Jaysen, the chief of the King’s army, said, “I would gladly give my life’s blood, but there is not enough food in my house.”

Dharmap;l, who owned broad acres of land, said with a sigh, “The drought demon has sucked my fields dry. I know not how to pay King’s dues.”

Then rose Supriy;, the mendicant’s daughter.

She bowed to all and meekly said, “I will feed the hungry.”

“How!” they cried in surprise. “How can you hope to fulfil that vow?”

“I am the poorest of you all,” said Supriy;, “that is my strength. I have my coffer and my store at each of your houses.”

XXXII
My king was unknown to me, therefore when he claimed his tribute I was bold to think I would hide myself leaving my debts unpaid.

I fled and fled behind my day’s work and my night’s dreams.

But his claims followed me at every breath I drew.

Thus I came to know that I am known to him and no place left which is mine.

Now I wish to lay my all before his feet, and gain the right to my place in his kingdom.

XXXIII
When I thought I would mould you, an image from my life for men to worship, I brought my dust and desires and all my coloured delusions and dreams.

When I asked you to mould with my life an image from your heart for you to love, you brought your fire and force, and truth, loveliness and peace.

XXXIV
“Sire,” announced the servant to the King, “the saint Narottam has never deigned to enter your royal temple.

“He is singing God’s praise under the trees by the open road. The temple is empty of worshippers.

“They flock round him like bees round the white lotus, leaving the golden jar of honey unheeded.”

The King, vexed at heart, went to the spot where Narottam sat on the grass.

He asked him, “Father, why leave my temple of the golden dome and sit on the dust outside to preach God’s love?”

“Because God is not there in your temple,” said Narottam.

The King frowned and said, “Do you know, twenty millions of gold went to the making of that marvel of art, and it was consecrated to God with costly rites?”

“Yes, I know it,” answered Narottam. “It was in that year when thousands of your people whose houses had been burned stood vainly asking for help at your door.

“And God said, ‘The poor creature who can give no shelter to his brothers would build my house!’

“And he took his place with the shelterless under the trees by the road.

“And that golden bubble is empty of all but hot vapour of pride.”

The King cried in anger, “Leave my land.”

Calmly said the saint, “Yes, banish me where you have banished my God.”

XXXV
The trumpet lies in the dust.

The wind is weary, the light is dead.

Ah, the evil day!

Come, fighters, carrying your flags, and singers, with your war-songs!

Come, pilgrims of the march, hurrying on your journey!

The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.

I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings, seeking for a place of rest after the day’s dusty toil: hoping my hurts would be healed and the stains in my garment washed white, when I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Was it not the hour for me to light my evening lamp?

Had not the night sung its lullaby to the stars?

O thou blood-red rose, my poppies of sleep have paled and faded!

I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts all paid when suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Strike my drowsy heart with thy spell of youth!

Let my joy in life blaze up in fire. Let the shafts of awakening fly through the heart of night, and a thrill of dread shake blindness and palsy.

I have come to raise thy trumpet from the dust.

Sleep is no more for me—my walk shall be through showers of arrows.

Some shall run out of their houses and come to my side—some shall weep.

Some in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.

For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.

From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.

Now I stand before thee—help me to put on my armour!

Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life.

Let my heart beat in pain, the drum of thy victory.

My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.

XXXVI
When, mad in their mirth, they raised dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful, it made my heart sick.

I cried to thee and said, “Take thy rod of punishment and judge them.”

The morning light struck upon those eyes, red with the revel of night; the place of the white lily greeted their burning breath; the stars through the depth of the sacred dark stared at their carousing—at those that raised dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful!

Thy judgment seat was in the flower garden, in the birds’ notes in springtime: in the shady river-banks, where the trees muttered in answer to the muttering of the waves.

O my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion.

They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their own desires.

When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to the quick, and I cried to thee and said, “Take thy sword, O my Lover, and judge them!”

Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.

A mother’s tears were shed on their insolence; the imperishable faith of a lover hid their spears of rebellion in its own wounds.

Thy judgment was in the mute pain of sleepless love: in the blush of the chaste: in the tears of the night of the desolate: in the pale morning-light of forgiveness.

O Terrible, they in their reckless greed climbed thy gate at night, breaking into thy storehouse to rob thee.

But the weight of their plunder grew immense, too heavy to carry or to remove.

Thereupon I cried to thee and said, Forgive them, O Terrible!

Thy forgiveness burst in storms, throwing them down, scattering their thefts in the dust.

Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-stone; in the shower of blood; in the angry red of the sunset.

XXXVII
Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.

Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.

Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?

He woke up startled, and the light from a woman’s lamp struck his forgiving eyes.

It was the dancing girl, starred with jewels, clouded with a pale-blue mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.

She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.

“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman; “graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you.”

The ascetic answered, “Woman, go on your way; when the time is ripe I will come to you.”

Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.

The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom.

Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.

The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.

From the mid-sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.

The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaint.

Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.

What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away from the town?

The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.

“Who are you, merciful one?” asked the woman.

“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here,” replied the young ascetic.

XXXVIII
This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.

Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting out all stars from my sky.

Снова и снова лопались берега, позволяя потоку смыть мой урожай, и плач и отчаяние разрывали мое небо от края до края.

Я узнал, что в твоей любви есть удары боли, а не холодная апатия смерти.

XXXIX
Стена рушится, свет, как божественный смех, врывается внутрь.

Победа, О Свет!

Сердце ночи пронзено!

Твой сверкающий меч разрубил надвое клубок сомнений и слабых желаний!

Победа!

Ну же, Неумолимый!

Придите, вы, ужасные в своей белизне.

О Свет, твой барабан звучит в марше огня, и красный факел горит высоко; смерть умирает во вспышке великолепия!

ХL
О огонь, брат мой, я пою тебе победу.

Ты-ярко-красный образ пугающей свободы.

Вы размахиваете руками в небе, вы проводите своими порывистыми пальцами по струнам арфы, ваша танцевальная музыка прекрасна.

Когда мои дни закончатся и врата откроются, ты сожжешь дотла эту цепь рук и ног.

Мое тело будет едино с тобой, мое сердце будет захвачено вихрями твоего безумия, и жгучий жар, который был моей жизнью, вспыхнет и смешается с твоим пламенем.

XLI