Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol. Sri Aurobindo

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      Through the long torture of the centuries,

      Nor many lives exhaust the tireless Wrath

      Hell cannot slake nor Heaven’s mercy assuage.

      I will take from thee the black eternal grip:

      Clasping in thy heart thy fate’s exiguous dole

      Depart in peace, if peace for man is just.”

      But Savitri answered meeting scorn with scorn,

      The mortal woman to the dreadful Lord:

      “Who is this God imagined by thy night,

      Contemptuously creating worlds disdained,

      Who made for vanity the brilliant stars?

      Not he who has reared his temple in my thoughts

      And made his sacred floor my human heart.

      My God is will and triumphs in his paths,

      My God is love and sweetly suffers all.

      To him I have offered hope for sacrifice

      And gave my longings as a sacrament.

      Who shall prohibit or hedge in his course,

      The wonderful, the charioteer, the swift?

      A traveller of the million roads of life,

      His steps familiar with the lights of heaven

      Tread without pain the sword-paved courts of hell;

      There he descends to edge eternal joy.

      Love’s golden wings have power to fan thy void:

      The eyes of love gaze starlike through death’s night,

      The feet of love tread naked hardest worlds.

      He labours in the depths, exults on the heights;

      He shall remake thy universe, O Death.”

      She spoke and for a while no voice replied,

      While still they travelled through the trackless night

      And still that gleam was like a pallid eye

      Troubling the darkness with its doubtful gaze.

      Then once more came a deep and perilous pause

      In that unreal journey through blind Nought;

      Once more a Thought, a Word in the void arose

      And Death made answer to the human soul:

      “What is thy hope? to what dost thou aspire?

      This is thy body’s sweetest lure of bliss,

      Assailed by pain, a frail precarious form,

      To please for a few years thy faltering sense

      With honey of physical longings and the heart’s fire

      And, a vain oneness seeking, to embrace

      The brilliant idol of a fugitive hour.

      And thou, what art thou, soul, thou glorious dream

      Of brief emotions made and glittering thoughts,

      A thin dance of fireflies speeding through the night,

      A sparkling ferment in life’s sunlit mire?

      Wilt thou claim immortality, O heart,

      Crying against the eternal witnesses

      That thou and he are endless powers and last?

      Death only lasts and the inconscient Void.

      I only am eternal and endure.

      I am the shapeless formidable Vast,

      I am the emptiness that men call Space,

      I am a timeless Nothingness carrying all,

      I am the Illimitable, the mute Alone.

      I, Death, am He; there is no other God.

      All from my depths are born, they live by death;

      All to my depths return and are no more.

      I have made a world by my inconscient Force.

      My Force is Nature that creates and slays

      The hearts that hope, the limbs that long to live.

      I have made man her instrument and slave,

      His body I made my banquet, his life my food.

      Man has no other help but only Death;

      He comes to me at his end for rest and peace.

      I, Death, am the one refuge of thy soul.

      The Gods to whom man prays can help not man;

      They are my imaginations and my moods

      Reflected in him by illusion’s power.

      That which thou seest as thy immortal self

      Is a shadowy icon of my infinite,

      Is Death in thee dreaming of eternity.

      I am the Immobile in which all things move,

      I am the nude Inane in which they cease:

      I have no body and no tongue to speak,

      I commune not with human eye and ear;

      Only thy thought gave a figure to my void.

      Because, O aspirant to divinity,

      Thou calledst me to wrestle with thy soul,

      I have assumed a face, a form, a voice.

      But if there were a Being witnessing all,

      How should he help thy passionate desire?

      Aloof he watches sole and absolute,

      Indifferent to thy cry in nameless calm.

      His being is pure, unwounded, motionless, one.

      One endless watches the inconscient scene

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