"The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.
"Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house
in the light of the worn-out moon.
"If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and
with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is
there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I,
shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?
"It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey.
"I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of
this village.
"Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in
their eyes.
"Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears
that are hidden in the gloom.
They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the
afterlife.
"I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?"
3
In the morning I cast my net into the sea.
I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and
strange beauty--some shone like a smile, some glistened like
tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride.
When with the day's burden I went home, my love was sitting in
the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower.
I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I
had dragged up, and stood silent.
She glanced at them and said, "What strange things are these? I
know not of what use they are!"
I bowed my head in shame and thought, "I have not fought for
these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts
for her.
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