An Outpouring

Does life deserve from us this galling reproach —
that we sleep on hunger
and swallow down our chokings
and our dreams sink away into the abyss of the vanished past,
then we wake...
and behold, the sun has set,
and the still clouds have covered the horizon,
and behold, life —
with all its lights that ring the radiant days of childhood and guileless youth,
and its ambitions and its blossoming hopes —
has been scattered, all of it, with all the rest, beyond recall;
and behold, the soul is worn out, exhausted,
finding no rest in repose,
turning aside for nothing,
never bending toward the delights of life?...
No, by the truth of it all.

★

An old Arab poet says:
"Do a kindness, though in the wrong place;
no kindness is ever lost, wherever it be placed."
And the modern psychologists, arguing by their foolish, wrangling theories, say in effect:
If a man wishes to be happy,
he can be;
and if he wishes not to fall ill,
it is impossible
that the hand of disease should touch him, or knock at his door.
They even go so far as to say
that he whose soul does not yearn for death
will not die.
O you there... and you others —
you are floundering.
The first theory no longer has any place in men's reckoning;
and the second theory
is refuted at its very root —
this theory that cost me — alas — believing what is not to be believed,
and imagining what has no foundation in truth,
and bringing this soul of mine down
to stations which the nature of one
molded of dignity and pride cannot approve —
yes, pride without pretension...
And so it was decreed for me
to give more than I take,
to forgive and to overlook —
first, because overlooking is my disposition,
and second, because in forbearance lies the happiness of others;
and upon the happiness of these others
I built my illusory happiness.

I wanted it to well up from the depths of conscience —
and did I come back with anything to show?
No, by the truth of it all.

★

I built my ship with my own hands
and resolved to sail far away,
far from anything, and from any human being,
that I might find rest after toil...
My ship was not ornamented,
for my candid soul
and my open heart
forbid me to disguise things;
nor was it a ship of pomp and vainglory,
for peacocks are birds with no minds to hold them back from strutting...
Nor was it big like Noah's ark,
for ambition does not lie in such glittering shows,
but in a man's knowing what it is in his power to know,
that he may cultivate himself and cultivate others, profiting and giving profit.
My ship had no horn to blow when it set sail
and blow when it came to anchor...
for din deafens my ears,
and noise
has done its shameful work upon the nerves,
and people worship drumming and piping,
and in that I have no business with people, in little or in much.
So no one noticed my singular ship;
and when I resolved on the voyage,
the ship spread its white sails
and glided off, light and swift, like a gentle butterfly.

But a hidden call began pleading with me in the core of my heart:
"For God's sake, come back. We cannot do without you, and no one in this life can fill the emptiness you leave."
And I stared at the shore, and behold, millions of children crying out imploringly, together with my own children:
Mother... Mother...
And so I shattered my beloved little ship with my own hands...
and ran back to them,
my voice grown hoarse from the choking of tears.

But was I right in what I did??
Did I bring back with me any peace of mind?
Did I gather up what of my life was scattered in vain behind the shining mirage...??
No, by the truth of it all.

★

Then life does not deserve from us this galling reproach,
for whether we act — or do not act — to life it is all one.