That I should make much of myself
and turn it on all sides, thus casting
coloured shadows on thy radiance––
such is thy maya.
   Thou settest a barrier in thine own
being and then callest thy severed self
in myriad notes. This thy self-separa-
tion has taken body in me.
   The poignant song is echoed through
all the sky in many-coloured tears and
smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up
and sink again, dreams break and form.
In me is thy own defeat of self.
   This screen that thou hast raised is
painted with innumerable figures with
the brush of the night and the day.
Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous
mysteries of curves, casting away all
barren lines of straightness.
   The great pageant of thee and me
has overspread the sky. With the
tune of thee and me all the air is
vibrant, and all ages pass with the hid-
ing and seeking of thee and me.

If it is not my portion to meet thee in
this my life then let me ever feel that
I have missed thy sight––let me not
forget for a moment, let me carry the
pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and
in my wakeful hours.
    As my days pass in the crowded
market of this world and my hands
grow full with the daily profits, let me
ever feel that I have gained nothing––
let me not forget for a moment, let me
carry the pangs of this sorrow in my
dreams and in my wakeful hours.
    When I sit by the roadside, tired
and panting, when I spread my bed low
in the dust, let me ever feel that the
long journey is still before me––let me
not forget for a moment, let me carry
the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
    When my rooms have been decked
out and the flutes sound and the laugh-
ter there is loud, let me ever feel that I
have not invited thee to my house––
let me not forget for a moment, let me
carry the pangs of this sorrow in my
dreams and in my wakeful hours.