The Wanderer’s Road

Beyond the soil’s last furrow
the road runs to the line of the horizon,
floating in the wind like the end of a sari’s border.
From field to field the clouds drift,
and on this straight road, in a fakir’s robe,
a life may be lived without complaint.
 
On many nights of darkness,
beneath the indigo sky’s painted vault,
the far-off galaxies are seen,
each carrying countless tales
that spill like a single drop of light
upon the breast of the earth.
We knew the lives of fallen leaves.
 
The deer of the heart has fled
to the fields of the far plain;
along this way, in saffron robes,
a young monk leaves the world behind,
answering the call of the far horizon—
ants walk beside him in ordered lines.
 
This empty road is where
civilization was born;
like a line of gold cloth
spreads the joy of the ages.
Here the Buddha, Atisha Dipankara,
and Adi Shankara
walked barefoot, passing through this society,
where homes once opened their doors
to the trade of truth.
 
Old sinews, calm blood, eyes with a steady line—
this land was so vast,
its roads reaching to every side;
each traveller took the path he wished,
yet the burden of equality and honesty
was never straight or light.
 
Those who bore that burden
carried it with no provision
that we could offer;
the townships, like beggars,
turned back the weary monk
to his lonely life.
 
Now in a fakir’s guise,
the saffron-clad young ascetic
looks with startled eyes
at the smooth tarred roads,
the modern city’s life,
the wireless waves,
the lightning in the sky;
and in this age,
men and women come
in Sujata’s disguise.
 
For the one whose life is the road—
renunciation and endurance his bread—
there is fear now
from both the guardians of society
and the courtesans;
they come like the harmless
shadow and light of night.
They have not seen
Time or the galaxies;
they have not heard
the call that sent him forth
to the horizon’s edge.
 
The ghosts call him
with dead weeping;
this road, ancient and awakened,
is today covered with wounds.
On both sides lie empty fields
waving the hand of death.
This is the monk’s road—
where civilization was born,
and where, like the border of yellow silk,
sorrow now lies spread.