The Ancient Joys of Sorrow

Climbing the mountain’s winding breast,
I wrap my memoirs in winter’s shawl—
held fast, unyielding, nothing lost.
A few pages in the diary,
some words, some dream,
the wilful pledges of the restless heart—
for love is in the nature of the people,
and if wrapped well and guarded close,
it is not easily lost.
 
When something is gone,
it may yet return;
the sea gives back all things,
and rivers run down from the mountain’s crest.
In the ancient torrent,
no memory is lost—
all remain in the house of the past,
flowing along this river-road
where life has drifted by.
 
To find them again is a struggle,
yet they arrive at other ghats of offering,
nourished by the company of new joys
and sudden thrills.
Those I abandoned long ago
now build a house with the lonely mountain girl.
 
On the riverbank,
in the land of sand,
dressed as a farmer of fertile fields,
I lost her—
I know not when.
Today is the day of broken dreams;
on the dry stone
I call to her,
and dash my head in grief.
 
If only I had been more human,
I could have loved her—
if words once given
had been kept,
if pledges had been held
in the ancient surreal light,
then all the burden would be hers,
and history would have left me
with a chest full of tears.
 
I open my eyes—
the mountain girl
stands in the grave of my heart.
The shattered dreams that break in Almora
she carries away,
smiling,
toward the battlefield
of a life yet to come.