"Who are you, merciful one?" asked the woman.
"The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here,"
replied the young ascetic.
XXXVIII
This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.
Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of
storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting
out all stars from my sky.
Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep
away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from
end to end.
This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love,
never the cold apathy of death.
XXXIX
The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts in.
Victory, O Light!
The heart of the night is pierced!
With your flashing sword cut in twain the tangle of doubt and
feeble desires!
Victory!
Come, Implacable!
Come, you who are terrible in your whiteness.
O Light, your drum sounds in the march of fire, and the red torch
is held on high; death dies in a burst of splendour!
XL
O fire, my brother, I sing victory to you.
You are the bright red image of fearful freedom.
You swing your arms in the sky, you sweep your impetuous fingers
across the harp-string, your dance music is beautiful.
When my days are ended and the gates are opened you will burn to
ashes this cordage of hands and feet.
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