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THE CYCLE OF SPRING
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What do you mean?
Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing, for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course.
Ah, but listen. Poet—listen to those cries there outside. That is your world. How do you deal with that?
King, they are your starving people.
My people, Poet? Why do you call them that? They are the world's people, not mine. Have I created their miseries? What can your youthful Poet Renouncers do to relieve sufferings like theirs? Tell me that.
King, it is we alone who can truly bear those sufferings, because we are like the river that flows on in gladness,
