THE DAY CAME for the image from the temple to be drawn round the holy town in its chariot.
        The Queen said to the King, 'Let us go and attend the festival.'
        Only one man out of the whole household did not join in the pilgrimage. His work was to collect stalks of spear-grass to make brooms for the King's house.
        The chief of the servants said in pity to him, 'You may come with us.'
He bowed his head, saying, 'It cannot be.'
The man dwelt by the road along which the King's followers had to pass.
        And when the Minister's elephant reached this spot, he called to him and said, 'Come with us and see the God ride in his chariot!'
        I dare not seek God after the King's fashion,' said the man.
        'How should you ever have such luck again as to see the God in his chariot?' asked the Minister.
        'When God himself comes to my door,' answered the man.
        The Minister laughed loud and said, 'Fool! "When God comes to your door!" yet a King must travel to see him!'
'Who except God visits the poor?' said the man.

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.
My body will be one with you, my heart will be caught in the whirls of your frenzy, and the burning heat that was my life will flash up and mingle itself in your flame.

THOU HAST come again to me in the burst of a sudden storm,
filling my sky with the shudder of thy shadowy clouds.
The Sun is hidden, the stars are lost;
the red line of the road is merged in the mist of the rain;
the wail of the wind comes across the water.
Fitful showers, like ghastly fingers, strike the chords of some unseen harp,
waking up the music of the dark,
sweeping my heart with a shiver of sounds.