Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol. Sri Aurobindo

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      And all that is unimagined and unthought,

      An eternal zero or untotalled Aught,

      A spaceless and a placeless Infinite.

      Yet eternity and infinity seemed but words

      Vainly affixed by mind’s incompetence

      To its stupendous lone reality.

      The world is but a spark-burst from its light,

      All moments flashes from its Timelessness,

      All objects glimmerings of the Bodiless

      That disappear from Mind when That is seen.

      It held, as if a shield before its face,

      A consciousness that saw without a seer,

      The Truth where knowledge is not nor knower nor known,

      The Love enamoured of its own delight

      In which the Lover is not nor the Beloved

      Bringing their personal passion into the Vast,

      The Force omnipotent in quietude,

      The Bliss that none can ever hope to taste.

      It cancelled the convincing cheat of self;

      A truth in nothingness was its mighty clue.

      If all existence could renounce to be

      And Being take refuge in Non-being’s arms

      And Non-being could strike out its ciphered round,

      Some lustre of that Reality might appear.

      A formless liberation came on her.

      Once sepulchred alive in brain and flesh

      She had risen up from body, mind and life;

      She was no more a Person in a world,

      She had escaped into infinity.

      What once had been herself had disappeared;

      There was no frame of things, no figure of soul.

      A refugee from the domain of sense,

      Evading the necessity of thought,

      Delivered from Knowledge and from Ignorance

      And rescued from the true and the untrue,

      She shared the Superconscient’s high retreat

      Beyond the self-born Word, the nude Idea,

      The first bare solid ground of consciousness;

      Beings were not there, existence had no place,

      There was no temptation of the joy to be.

      Unutterably effaced, no one and null,

      A vanishing vestige like a violet trace,

      A faint record merely of a self now past,

      She was a point in the unknowable.

      Only some last annulment now remained,

      Annihilation’s vague indefinable step:

      A memory of being still was there

      And kept her separate from nothingness:

      She was in That but still became not That.

      This shadow of herself so close to nought

      Could be again self’s point d’appui to live,

      Return out of the Inconceivable

      And be what some mysterious vast might choose.

      Even as the Unknowable decreed,

      She might be nought or new-become the All,

      Or if the omnipotent Nihil took a shape

      Emerge as someone and redeem the world.

      Even, she might learn what the mystic cipher held,

      This seeming exit or closed end of all

      Could be a blind tenebrous passage screened from sight,

      Her state the eclipsing shell of a darkened sun

      On its secret way to the Ineffable.

      Even now her splendid being might flame back

      Out of the silence and the nullity,

      A gleaming portion of the All-Wonderful,

      A power of some all-affirming Absolute,

      A shining mirror of the eternal Truth

      To show to the One-in-all its manifest face,

      To the souls of men their deep identity.

      Or she might wake into God’s quietude

      Beyond the cosmic day and cosmic night

      And rest appeased in his white eternity.

      But this was now unreal or remote

      Or covered in the mystic fathomless blank.

      In infinite Nothingness was the ultimate sign

      Or else the Real was the Unknowable.

      A lonely Absolute negated all:

      It effaced the ignorant world from its solitude

      And drowned the soul in its everlasting peace.

      End of Canto Six

      Canto Seven

      The Discovery of the Cosmic Spirit and the Cosmic Consciousness

      In the little hermitage in the forest’s heart,

      In the sunlight and the moonlight and the dark

      The daily human life went plodding on

      Even as before with its small unchanging works

      And its spare outward body of routine

      And happy quiet of ascetic peace.

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