WITHIN THE HEART

I called my heart. No one answered.
No one was within. What a moment of anguish!
Dense was the wood, black the night
And long the road. I called and called.
No one answered. And the walled-up, silent castle,
The only shelter in the horror of the night,
Was my heart. And it did not open to me.

I went so weary, almost dead,
Tired out by the steep ascent,
By the hostile desert
And briny springs of life.
Under a sun of fire or sickly drizzle,
I grew stiff with cold or was drenched in sweat;
I left red stains on the stones and thistles;
There met foxes, owls, swine, panthers and leopards.
And in an innocent meadow, with anemones,
Begonias and jasmines, I saw two flat,
Triangular heads bring down many agile does.
What a horribe journey, and the wood so grim!
Black the night, wild my head, weary my feet,
Silent the castle; and I knocked and knocked!

At last a door opened.
All dark was that dead dwelling.
Three little old men, with white hair
And garments of black and beige serge,
Received me: «Come in, brother.»

The three were all alike. The matted white hair
Fell like snow upon the shoulders of each.
In the background, in a corner, a lamp
With flickering and dying light,
Struggled with the night.
«We are happy,» said one. «Resigned,» said another.
«Here,» said the third, «without friends,
Without masters, without rivals, we await
The final change.»
The tremulous old men were Memories.

«It is impossible! —I thought—. Is this all
That is left of that palace where fairies dwelt?
Where is the magnificent grove?
Where the waterfalls, the lofty balconies,
The dazzling halls, and the beautiful
Sighing mistresses, dying of love?»

And I rushed into the dark corridors.
I arrived at the four well-known doors,
Never opened by anyone.
I entered the red precincts where a fountain
Of blood, always bright and burning, flowed
From night till morning, from morning till night,
Forever. I had caused that fountain to burst forth.

I entered the grey precinct, where another fountain
Arose with plaintive song: the song of tears.
I made that abundant weeping flow.

I entered the yellow precinct: seven lights
Lit up seven crosses of flame,
And upon the seven crosses,
Seven sins were dying, crucified.

And new wings were born to Psyche.
I remember the words of the Mystery:
«When your soul is a rhealm of disillusionments,
When suffering exhausts your tears,
When the World applies its cautery to you
Without pity, and you are scourged by Grief,
You can cross the tempting door,
The white door, Ultima Thule.»

«Then,» I said, «this is the hour.»
And I entered with firm step and unshaken soul.
I remained astounded, for I found myself
In a land of snow, with stainless outlook;
Every plane the white of driven snow;
Every mountain a block of rainbow hues;
Every peak a living whiteness.
And at the touch of light, the whitening cliffs
Were jets of diamonds.


«Where am I?» I asked myself trembling.
And a wind of religious sweetness bore
To my ear a delicate voice: «You are far
From those burning sands where your passions rise up
And devour you like a hundred jackels;
Far from outside aggressions. To these summits
Rises neither the prying eye of inquisitiveness,
Nor the elegant poinard of treacheries.
They are a refuge unknown
To the human tiger and human hyena;
To the perfidious songs of the siren
And the guileful weeping of the crocodile.
You have come to the unknown land,
The land of symbolic whiteness,
All mystery and calm.
You are in the serene, the pure, the unknown
Regions of your own soul.»
And I remained gazing at the heights.