Ay, ay, my God, much remains still. My fate has not cheated me
of everything.
72
With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or
windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.
I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt
contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.
It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.
The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy
bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces,
women with limbs like serpents.
No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song
of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.
The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of
incantations which I chanted.
My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses
swooned in ecstasy.
I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the
temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.
The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like
chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would
fain hide themselves.
I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive
with the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned had
spread its wings and vanished.
73
Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!
You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.
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