A beautiful woman—weary, helpless, alone—is looking about,

As if proceeding, she would ultimately reach and swing over the horizon’s colour,

As if, falling and rising, she would reach out and touch the stars.

She sees some wayfarer entangled in the twists and turns of the road.

   .

Yawning, coiling, striking against ruins and settlements,

Avoiding and turning from them, raising whirlpools on the dry earth,

Coquettish, shy, frightened, revealing future dreams,

Resting under shade, then turning, she goes forward freely.

      .

Casting herself into the eyes of the wayfarer, she falls and again recovers;

She becomes a current of silvery dreams under cool star shade;

She becomes a wanderer of the plain in the lighted torches of day;

Joining with rivers and streams, she finally reaches far ahead.

      .

She crushes the bodies of flowers, awakens the candelabra of particles;

She hears the laments of the branches of weary trees;

Unseen, she weaves a net in the path of every new arrival;

She puts the buds to sleep under earth, then goes on, pointing to the destination.

      .

Sorrowful travelers left behind lose their way in the darkness;

On the cheeks of the road, feet leave dim imprints.

Travelers straggling behind erase the earlier impressions

Which become a story buried continuously under the dust of Time.

       .

Someone is dragging the hem of his robe on the turns and twists of the road;

The complicated dimness of the future, the deep darkness of the past,

This silence, this dead silence and, in addition, our blindness; these are

The journey, O lonely traveler! You have borne well all which you had to suffer.

   .  

A beautiful woman—weary, helpless, alone—is looking about;

The path of life curls in the darkness;

Who can touch the stars? One loses one’s breath in the course of the journey.

She sees some wayfarer entangled in the twists and turns of the road.

      . 

This sun, this moon and stars, can they light the way?

Is darkness the prelude to dawn? Isn’t darkness the end?

Is there not someone to drink the light on the path of those who’ll later come?

We have at least the power to live and to die.

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 68 – 70