Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol. Sri Aurobindo

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      Thy mortal longing made for thee a soul.

      This angel in thy body thou callst love,

      Who shapes his wings from thy emotion’s hues,

      In a ferment of thy body has been born

      And with the body that housed it it must die.

      It is a passion of thy yearning cells,

      It is flesh that calls to flesh to serve its lust;

      It is thy mind that seeks an answering mind

      And dreams awhile that it has found its mate;

      It is thy life that asks a human prop

      To uphold its weakness lonely in the world

      Or feeds its hunger on another’s life.

      A beast of prey that pauses in its prowl,

      It crouches under a bush in splendid flower

      To seize a heart and body for its food:

      This beast thou dreamst immortal and a god.

      O human mind, vainly thou torturest

      An hour’s delight to stretch through infinity’s

      Long void and fill its formless, passionless gulfs,

      Persuading the insensible Abyss

      To lend eternity to perishing things,

      And trickst the fragile movements of thy heart

      With thy spirit’s feint of immortality.

      All here emerges born from Nothingness;

      Encircled it lasts by the emptiness of Space,

      Awhile upheld by an unknowing Force,

      Then crumbles back into its parent Nought:

      Only the mute Alone can for ever be.

      In the Alone there is no room for love.

      In vain to clothe love’s perishable mud

      Thou hast woven on the Immortals’ borrowed loom

      The ideal’s gorgeous and unfading robe.

      The ideal never yet was real made.

      Imprisoned in form that glory cannot live;

      Into a body shut it breathes no more.

      Intangible, remote, for ever pure,

      A sovereign of its own brilliant void,

      Unwillingly it descends to earthly air

      To inhabit a white temple in man’s heart:

      In his heart it shines rejected by his life.

      Immutable, bodiless, beautiful, grand and dumb,

      Immobile on its shining throne it sits;

      Dumb it receives his offering and his prayer.

      It has no voice to answer to his call,

      No feet that move, no hands to take his gifts:

      Aerial statue of the nude Idea,

      Virgin conception of a bodiless god,

      Its light stirs man the thinker to create

      An earthly semblance of diviner things.

      Its hued reflection falls upon man’s acts;

      His institutions are its cenotaphs,

      He signs his dead conventions with its name;

      His virtues don the Ideal’s skiey robe

      And a nimbus of the outline of its face:

      He hides their littleness with the divine Name.

      Yet insufficient is the bright pretence

      To screen their indigent and earthy make:

      Earth only is there and not some heavenly source.

      If heavens there are they are veiled in their own light,

      If a Truth eternal somewhere reigns unknown,

      It burns in a tremendous void of God;

      For truth shines far from the falsehoods of the world;

      How can the heavens come down to unhappy earth

      Or the eternal lodge in drifting time?

      How shall the Ideal tread earth’s dolorous soil

      Where life is only a labour and a hope,

      A child of Matter and by Matter fed,

      A fire flaming low in Nature’s grate,

      A wave that breaks upon a shore in Time,

      A journey’s toilsome trudge with death for goal?

      The Avatars have lived and died in vain,

      Vain was the sage’s thought, the prophet’s voice;

      In vain is seen the shining upward Way.

      Earth lies unchanged beneath the circling sun;

      She loves her fall and no omnipotence

      Her mortal imperfections can erase,

      Force on man’s crooked ignorance Heaven’s straight line

      Or colonise a world of death with gods.

      O traveller in the chariot of the Sun,

      High priestess in thy holy fancy’s shrine

      Who with a magic ritual in earth’s house

      Worshippest ideal and eternal love,

      What is this love thy thought has deified,

      This sacred legend and immortal myth?

      It is a conscious yearning of thy flesh,

      It is a glorious burning of thy nerves,

      A rose of dream-splendour petalling thy mind,

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