The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Writings: Prose and Poems(Original and Translated)/My Play is Done
MY PLAY IS DONE
(Written in the Spring of 1895 in New York)
Ever rising, ever falling with the waves of time,
- still rolling on I go
From fleeting scene to scene ephemeral,
- with life's currents' ebb and flow.
Oh! I am sick of this unending force;
- these shows they please no more.
This ever running, never reaching,
- nor e'en a distant glimpse of shore!
From life to life I'm waiting at the gates,
- alas, they open not.
Dim are my eyes with vain attempt
- to catch one ray long sought.
On little life's high, narrow bridge
- I stand and see below
The struggling, crying, laughing throng.
- For what? No one can know.
In front yon gates stand frowning dark,
- and say: "No farther way,
This is the limit; tempt not Fate,
- bear it as best you may;
Go, mix with them and drink this cup
- and be as mad as they.
Who dares to know but comes to grief;
- stop then, and with them stay."
Alas for me. I cannot rest.
- This floating bubble, earth—
Its hollow form, its hollow name,
- its hollow death and birth—
For me is nothing. How I long
- to get beyond the crust
Of name and form! Ah! ope the gates;
- to me they open must.
Open the gates of light, O Mother, to me Thy tired son. I long, oh, long to return home!
- Mother, my play is done.
You sent me out in the dark to play,
- and wore a frightful mask;
Then hope departed, terror came,
- and play became a task.
Tossed to and fro, from wave to wave
- in this seething, surging sea
Of passions strong and sorrows deep,
- grief is, and joy to be,
Where life is living death, alas! and death—
- who knows but 'tis
Another start, another round of this old wheel
- of grief and bliss?
Where children dream bright, golden dreams,
- too soon to find them dust,
And aye look back to hope long lost
- and life a mass of rust!
Too late, the knowledge age cloth gain;
- scarce from the wheel we're gone
When fresh, young lives put their strength
- to the wheel, which thus goes on
From day to day and year to year.
- 'Tis but delusion's toy,
False hope its motor; desire, nave;
- its spokes are grief and joy.
I go adrift and know not whither.
- Save me from this fire!
Rescue me, merciful Mother,
- from floating with desire!
Turn not to me Thy awful face,
- 'tis more than I can bear.
Be merciful and kind to me,
- to chide my faults forbear.
Take me, O Mother, to those shores
- where strifes for ever cease;
Beyond all sorrows, beyond tears,
- beyond e'en earthly bliss;
Whose glory neither sun, nor moon,
- nor stars that twinkle bright,
Nor flash of lightning can express.
- They but reflect its light.
Let never more delusive dreams
- veil off Thy face from me.
My play is done, O Mother,
- break my chains and make me free!