4
THE FUGITIVE
your dancing limbs shakes the sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth.
Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an unbearable pressure.
My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the anklets of light are shaken.
They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm of the ancient sea.
I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings and songs.
The tide runs high, the wind blows,
