O my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion.
They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their
own desires.
When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to
the quick, and I cried to thee and said, "Take thy sword, O my
Lover, and judge them!"
Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.
A mother's tears were shed on their insolence; the imperishable
faith of a lover hid their spears of rebellion in its own wounds.
Thy judgment was in the mute pain of sleepless love: in the blush
of the chaste: in the tears of the night of the desolate: in the
pale morning-light of forgiveness.
O Terrible, they in their reckless greed climbed thy gate at
night, breaking into thy storehouse to rob thee.
But the weight of their plunder grew immense, too heavy to carry
or to remove.
Thereupon I cried to thee and said, Forgive them, O Terrible!
Thy forgiveness burst in storms, throwing them down, scattering
their thefts in the dust.
Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-stone; in the shower of blood;
in the angry red of the sunset.
XXXVII
Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the
city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all
hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast
of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and the light from a woman's lamp struck his
forgiving eyes.
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