Stand in illusion's house and mourn the fateOf all these creatures bound by time's harsh gate.
Pierce through the night and pour thy tender tear,O weeping heart—draw near and draw near.
Stand in illusion's house and celebrate,Extol the poets fully, nor abate.
Send forth thy sorrows, let the stubborn weepFlow unrestrained from eyes that cannot sleep.
Today may bring thee tears for life below—A life like hell with unrelenting woe.
Thou knowest not how he whose heart is soreWith bitterness recounts his anguish more.
O life that hath permitted every strangeForbidden thing—how wondrous, how deranged!
It folded peoples up and coldly said:Is there yet more of love, or are they dead?
It is the fire of hell for foe and friend,For enemies and comrades without end.
They entered it from ages long ago,And rested in its torment's ceaseless flow.
O ye who idle in oblivion's sleep,Arise from slumber's dull and heavy keep!
God calls—respond to Him who made all things,Lord of creation and the life it brings.
The bird of life wept over graves below,Above the tombs where silent sleepers go.
And long it wailed in lamentation's strain,Through all those ages filled with grief and pain.
O bird, be thou my helper in complaint,Repeat the melody without restraint.
Reply and tell me—is there hope in life?The bird replied with calm amidst the strife:
Leave idle tales of mortal men behind—Beyond diversion naught but death we find,
The bitter cup of death's relentless claim.Beyond all pleasure lies that deadly name.
These universes flow—we are but shoresUpon the nebula's far-reaching doors.
They pass and know not why death came to be,The ancient cause hid in eternity.
O wanderer, enough—return with haste,Fear not—before the wave thy steps are placed.
Before the surge envelops and submerges,Then folds thee in the ocean's mighty verges.
Thou squandered life, gazing at stars on high,Then passed along, unheeding sorrow's cry.
Thou followedst the footsteps of a raceThat went with regrets etched on every face.
No comfort comes to them from any handSave birds upon the open desert's sand.
Nothing consoles their grief in desolation—Save birds that sing across the wilderness.
The world is but illusion—eyes cannotDiscern its nature, know its hidden plot.
It is surrounded by delusion's night,Built up by those who cheat with false delight.
Dost thou suppose the world shall long endure,Or turn toward sorrows that no cure?
Dost thou see aught but rain that falls and goes,Then spills its drops and onward ever flows?
The sleeping world suffers in its dream,A slumber filled with torment's bitter stream.
It found naught but desires that deceive,Deluders like mirage that fools believe.
It found naught but faint images that fadeIn deserts and in lowlands' barren shade.
It plucked them in the gloom of eve and morn,In evening's dusk and dawn when day is born.
A shadow running through the airy space,Bearing the spirit free from time's embrace.
It passed through that expanse without a guide,A stranger walking on an unknown tide.
A bird upon the cosmos floats or dives,Now rising, now descending through our lives.
And then the universe becomes a shade,With shadows that obscure and overlay.
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