Indifferent

Restless am I, forsaken—none beside me,
through endless night and ceaseless day.
A relentless anguish, in a solitary life,
weakens the trembling heart.
 
Sin itself is God,
and this curse abides within my soul.
For man’s greater need
there was no true need of man.
 
And yet there was childhood, there was feeling,
there were the burdens of justice,
the austere call of truth and duty,
the rights of faith, the flame of love.
Man’s virile path lay straight and narrow—
but now estrangement, disbelief,
and tyranny without conscience
have entered,
and on the road toward destiny
sin has laid its ambush.
So many sins—
civilization’s curse.
And Gautama weeps
in the agony of the dying.
 
From my rifle leapt the bullet—
I ran,
to be certain:
Had it struck? Had it killed?
And when the prey was pierced,
the cry of triumph rose,
and I returned
to the tumult of the crowd.
 
But then—
the day gave way to day,
and the bullet, in its opposite flight,
returned,
piercing me.
The body fell,
and those I once had slain
now doubted:
might I yet live?
Therefore they come near,
seeking certainty.
 
This sin—
this curse of modern strife—
in the chase for livelihood,
for life, for the beloved,
for proud ambition, for inward flight—
he ran heedless,
he heeded not the meaning of pain.
Till the instant before he fell,
struck down by the rushing bullet,
he strode in pride along the narrow lane,
where in a silent corner
Aruni lay, burdened,
and he never turned to see.
 
Drawing his final breath, he knew—
no one would grieve for him,
no one would halt the waves of the sea.
Hearing the vast laughter, he was certain:
so many sins—
civilization’s curse.
And Gautama weeps
in the anguish of the dying.