Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol. Sri Aurobindo
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Название: Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol

Автор: Sri Aurobindo

Издательство: Автор

Жанр: Эзотерика

Серия:

isbn: 9783937701608

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ perverse of a stupendous Will,

      Tools of the Unknown who use us as their tools,

      Invested with power in Nature’s nether state,

      Into the actions mortals think their own

      They bring the incoherencies of Fate,

      Or make a doom of Time’s slipshod caprice

      And toss the lives of men from hand to hand

      In an inconsequent and devious game.

      Against all higher truth their stuff rebels;

      Only to Titan force their will lies prone.

      Inordinate their hold on human hearts,

      In all our nature’s turns they intervene.

      Insignificant architects of low-built lives

      And engineers of interest and desire,

      Out of crude earthiness and muddy thrills

      And coarse reactions of material nerve

      They build our huddled structures of self-will

      And the ill-lighted mansions of our thought,

      Or with the ego’s factories and marts

      Surround the beautiful temple of the soul.

      Artists minute of the hues of littleness,

      They set the mosaic of our comedy

      Or plan the trivial tragedy of our days,

      Arrange the deed, combine the circumstance

      And the fantasia of the moods costume.

      These unwise prompters of man’s ignorant heart

      And tutors of his stumbling speech and will,

      Movers of petty wraths and lusts and hates

      And changeful thoughts and shallow emotion’s starts,

      These slight illusion-makers with their masks,

      Painters of the decor of a dull-hued stage

      And nimble scene-shifters of the human play,

      Ever are busy with this ill-lit scene.

      Ourselves incapable to build our fate

      Only as actors speak and strut our parts

      Until the piece is done and we pass off

      Into a brighter Time and subtler Space.

      Thus they inflict their little pigmy law

      And curb the mounting slow uprise of man,

      Then his too scanty walk with death they close.

      This is the ephemeral creature’s daily life.

      As long as the human animal is lord

      And a dense nether nature screens the soul,

      As long as intellect’s outward-gazing sight

      Serves earthy interest and creature joys,

      An incurable littleness pursues his days.

      Ever since consciousness was born on earth,

      Life is the same in insect, ape and man,

      Its stuff unchanged, its way the common route.

      If new designs, if richer details grow

      And thought is added and more tangled cares,

      If little by little it wears a brighter face,

      Still even in man the plot is mean and poor.

      A gross content prolongs his fallen state;

      His small successes are failures of the soul,

      His little pleasures punctuate frequent griefs:

      Hardship and toil are the heavy price he pays

      For the right to live and his last wages death.

      An inertia sunk towards inconscience,

      A sleep that imitates death is his repose.

      A puny splendour of creative force

      Is made his spur to fragile human works

      Which yet outlast their brief creator’s breath.

      He dreams sometimes of the revels of the gods

      And sees the Dionysian gesture pass, –

      A leonine greatness that would tear his soul

      If through his failing limbs and fainting heart

      The sweet and joyful mighty madness swept:

      Trivial amusements stimulate and waste

      The energy given to him to grow and be.

      His little hour is spent in little things.

      A brief companionship with many jars,

      A little love and jealousy and hate,

      A touch of friendship mid indifferent crowds

      Draw his heart-plan on life’s diminutive map.

      If something great awakes, too frail his pitch

      To reveal its zenith tension of delight,

      His thought to eternise its ephemeral soar,

      Art’s brilliant gleam is a pastime for his eyes,

      A thrill that smites the nerves is music’s spell.

      Amidst his harassed toil and welter of cares,

      Pressed by the labour of his crowding thoughts,

      He draws sometimes around his aching brow

      Nature’s calm mighty hands to heal his life-pain.

      He is saved by her silence from his rack of self;

      In her tranquil beauty is his purest bliss.

      A new life dawns, he looks out from vistas wide;

      The СКАЧАТЬ