India
“Misterious India with the sunshins an’ the
palm-trees an’ the tinkly bells.”

How I wish, how I wish I could say to myself
To hide it from the world –:
I shall be a forerunner to someone, as John was to Christ,
Or a herald of something great:
The often-falling spirit would rise once and for all;
Endless joy would replace grief;
Life would never seem like a garden scorched by frost
Nor would our breasts ever feel like a temple without a vigil lamp;
Eyes would not lift to the sky full of despair
Invoking death,
And we would move towards something new
Even though there is nothing new under the sun.

How I wish, how I wish I were an apostle,
A prophet,
No longer would I walk the same path that others used to tread
Through a long succession of centuries, widely spread
And which I, wretched, tread now,
And I would cry out: “Follow me!”
And have millions come after me
Along the untrodden path,
Arduous but better, new, –
Even though there is nothing new under the sun.

How I wish, how I wish I were at least a leader,
Not to all, –
Only to these
Who bear the yoke like oxen,
(For they neither rebel nor defy;
Or to awaken them – the cursed East –
Who believing in fate forgot even the date
When the yoke was placed on their necks.
And like oxen that bellow,
May they roar:
“Out, intruders, from our forefathers’ soil,
Old, great, sacred soil!”
To shout thunderously, so that the torpid world may awaken again.
But, ah!
Me!
These wishes of mine are empty, foolish and deaf.
And me, –
A forerunner, apostle, prophet, or merely a leader
Wretched me!

Through the land of mysticism and dreams
I will pass like my own shadow
Leaving no trace behind,
Just like my shadow.

And while my eye grows moist looking at Her crown of thorns,
At Her cross,
While countless little bells
Swing softly in the wind from the temple roofs –
Something mystical flows through me,
My spirit starts to renew,
As my hearing sharpens, and so does my view.
And, behold! –
Altars become cliffs, trees, and stones;
The Ganges turns into a path, red and yellow like sacrificial flowers
Along which they rush (the thud of hooves is heard);
Rushing towards the cross where She is crucified –:
The Four Horsemen from the Apocalypse of John.

Benares 1927.

K Suncu za Sunce (To the Sun, for the Sun) pp. 14–15.