Too bright the sun, too harsh its light, at noon today,
the everlasting azure sky too blue and pure.
The clouds like sheep before the wolf have fled away
and we, poor mortal creatures, hide, bow down, endure
as best we can; but little strength have we to last
against the sun-god's heat, against the Archer's blast.
A madness soaks the beams, a poison none can cure,
and bitter burns the bite of each unturning ray.
As death, bright angel, spreads the glory-shroud of day
we fall on desert sand, our end made sure,
and dream of rivers cool, of dew, of spring and pool,
of lands of green and joy, where gentler spirits rule.
Sacred text in hand, the lion waits;
teaching is the path through golden gates
reaching other realms the mind has sought,
byssal depths of light beyond all thought.
Flawless question given, answers dissipate.
Past the first awareness is the seed,
source untouched by any craving need,
spark forever steadfast in its light,
constant in reflection and in fight:
thinker is but thought, and doer deed.
Lion for reflection on the plains,
Free of deep delusion, in the rains
sees the golden grasses and the sky;
golden eyes outlook all things that die.
Thoughts devoid of craving know no pain:
self once overcome, no self remains.