no philosophy in it?

No, none at all, thank goodness.

What does it say, then?

King, it says "I exist." Don't you know the meaning of the first
cry of the new-born child? The child, when it is born, hears at
once the cries of the earth and water and sky, which surround
him,--and they all cry to him, "We exist," and his tiny little
heart responds, and cries out in its turn, "I exist." My poetry
is like the cry of that new-born child. It is a response to the
cry of the Universe.

Is it nothing more than that, Poet?

No, nothing more. There is life in my song, which cries, "In joy
and in sorrow, in work and in rest, in life and in death, in
victory and in defeat, in this world and in the next, all hail to
the 'I exist.'"

Well, Poet, I can assure you, if your play hasn't got any
philosophy in it, it won't pass muster in these days.

That's true, King. The newer people, of this modern age, are more
eager to amass than to realize. They are, in their generation,
wiser than the children of light.

Whom shall we ask, then, for an audience? Shall we ask the young
students of our royal school?

No, King, they cut up poetry with their logic. They are like the
young-horned deer trying their new horns on the flower-beds.

Whom should I ask, then?

Ask those whose hair is turning grey.

What do you mean, Poet?

The youth of these middle-aged people is a youth of detachment.
They have just crossed the waters of pleasure, and are in sight
of the land of pure gladness. They don't want to eat fruit, but
to produce it.

I, at least, have now reached that age of discretion, and ought
to be able to appreciate your songs. Shall I ask the General?

Yes, ask him.

And the Chinese Ambassador?

Yes, ask him too.

I hear my father-in-law has come.

Well, ask him too, but I have my doubts about his youthful sons.

But don't forget his daughter.

Don't worry about her. She won't let herself be forgotten.

And Sruti-bhushan? Shall I ask him?

No, King, no. Decidedly, no. I have no grudge against him. Why
should I inflict this on him?

Very well, Poet. Off with you. Make your stage preparations.

No, King. We are going to act this play without any special
preparations. Truth looks tawdry when she is overdressed.

But, Poet, there must be some canvas for a background.

No. Our only background is the mind. On that we shall summon up
a picture with the magic wand of music.

Are there any songs in the play?

Ye