e drum of insult sounded, my seat is laid
low in the dust.

My paths are open before me.

My wings are full of the desire of the sky.

I go to join the shooting stars of midnight, to plunge into the
profound shadow.

I am like the storm-driven cloud of summer that, having cast off
its crown of gold, hangs as a sword the thunderbolt upon a chain
of lightning.

In desperate joy I run upon the dusty path of the despised; I
draw near to your final welcome.

The child finds its mother when it leaves her womb.

When I am parted from you, thrown out from your household, I am
free to see your face.

XI

It decks me only to mock me, this jewelled chain of mine.

It bruises me when on my neck, it strangles me when I struggle to
tear it off.

It grips my throat, it chokes my singing.

Could I but offer it to your hand, my Lord, I would be saved.

Take it from me, and in exchange bind me to you with a garland,
for I am ashamed to stand before you with this jewelled chain on
my neck.

XII

Far below flowed the Jumna, swift and clear, above frowned the
jutting bank.

Hills dark with the woods and scarred with the torrents were
gathered around.

Govinda, the great Sikh teacher, sat on the rock reading
scriptures, when Raghunath, his disciple, proud of his wealth,
came and bowed to him and said, "I have brought my poor present
unworthy of your acceptance."

Thus saying he displayed before the teacher a pair of gold
bangles wrought with costly stones.

The master took up one of them, twirling it round his finger, and
the diamonds darted shafts of light.

Suddenly it slipped from his hand and rolled down the bank into
the water.

"Alas," screamed Raghunath, and jumped into the stream.

The teacher set his eyes upon his book, and the water held and
hid what it stole and went its way.

The daylight faded when Raghunath came back to the teacher tired
and dripping.

He panted and said, "I can still get it back if you show me where
it fell."

The teacher took up the remaining bangle and throwing it into the
water said, "It is there."

XIII

To move is to meet you every moment,
Fellow-traveller!

It is to sing to the falling of your feet.

He whom your breath touches does not glide by the shelter of the
bank.

He spreads a reckless sail to the wind and rides the turbulent
water.

He who throws his doors open and steps onward receives your
greeting.

He does not stay to count his