But all of a sudden a sweet voice
filled the place of this darkness.
A mirage like an elf rose up from the host
and ripped all at once the thick darkness,
for hearts which sought a little light
‘I am the immortal Soul of the world,
because without soul no one would exist,
the world would be void in meaning and connection.
And Love is my own Soul
which leads my passing in the worlds.
I speak through all the beings
when arrogance is absent from them.
How have you dared, you fool, to imagine
that only you have a soul
in all this world?
Did you hear it leading you -
that you are a king over relics of bodies?
What sort of king is he
whose lot is a condemnation to live
in a country truly empty of life?
And since men, as you say,
have themselves a soul,
why do they kill one another
and have filled their streets
with death and violence
and have shattered the warmth of life
which rocked the future in its cradle?
I am the Great Soul
and the little souls belong to me.
The destiny of the world was written
before the beginning of the great time,
with a fiery seal on the everywhere,
undefeated by the world and the beings.
How could the beings and the world
ever defeat themselves?
The performance is not life
and never possesses victory.
It is a mirroring of life,
but you must read it well,
otherwise you are lost
in the black shadows of error
which darkened the hearts
and those died, choked by the dark.
How is it possible for the Soul to dwell
in a world so empty,
next to beings which are truly soulless and non-existent?
The Soul blows everywhere like the hope of life
which leads the beings on an impulse
to lightning flashes of glory beyond time
where Love and the Aim,
fiery waves of life which sweep the worlds,
in an ecstasy of joy
empty the performance of the meanings
which were not its own.’
The beings of this earth wept
on hearing the final hope,
for a little while the black veils of darkness were opened
and light was poured out like a vision everywhere,
which like an undissolved memory would support the beings
on the unbearable roads of affliction.
The king falls to the ground as if wounded.
The symbols of the mind and of power
were scattered on the earth.
Head and hands stripped of adornments,
a poverty without inner meaning
shining within it.
And the Soul stretches out a hand
to the man who lies before it,
for him to receive in the depth of his heart
that strange equality
of the unknown purpose which governs the beings.
But the king turned away his face
with anger and great vehemence:
‘Go! Phantom of the dark!
Man will conquer you.’
And so the hand of the Soul alone remained
over the breath of the world.
Empty it seemed and luckless
for the rich shadows of the earth
which hid desires and pleasures
for the roads of men,
and it wished to extinguish them
in that emptiness of it
which frightened men
and they did not let go from their hands
what they were holding,
toils of generations and of endless years.
And the king continued in a voice
which weak sounded in the brilliance:
‘We have made so many good things in this wild world
for protection, for life, for the delight of man -
much knowledge has collected in the mind
which we alone have fashioned in the blood of our heart,
and you, wicked ghost, seek
to scatter the things that we have to the wind
for the sake of a nothing
which is all our own?’
And the Soul replied:
‘For your own sake renounce
what you have acquired throughout the years.
For your soul these things are of no use,
in the light they will appear non-existent!
All this wisdom of yours
has ended up an acquisition without life
and died as it thought, stifled in the passions,
that the whole world is a machine.
But your soul aspires to be free
from the earth’s symbols of power
and you too seem like a machine to it
as long as you see only machines.
But love holds it
by a golden chain,
until you rise up
from the mud you have wallowed in
and as a pure spirit you rise again
from your own waiting depth,
or else your world will be reduced in rubble
through and through
and the ‘machines’ which your mind saw everywhere
will take an involuntary revenge
through their extinction.
The passions have no limits,
they spread constantly, to become absolute.
The first war of this grim world
was that of the bodies,
where the bodies wrote the history of the world.
The second war was that of the mind,
a heavy and treacherous weapon
in the cold hands of man,
which swept away the beings of the earth with images of death
even before the violence of the bodies.
But now the third great war is about to begin,
of man against the Soul,
because the Soul will not allow itself to be seen
by the scheming thought of man
as war against the world.’
The terrible words of the Soul
resounded like a thunderbolt
and man was seized with fright,
but these did not touch him in the depths of his heart,
he had an image of the Soul, but no sense of it.
The mirage faded and the fearful dark
began to spread in the places of the earth.
The king drags himself along and looks for
his earthly symbols,
his trembling hands fumble about
in the earth and dust which covered them -
the only honour they deserved
in this magical world,
where the spirit and the body met
for one moment only.
There is the sceptre and the crown,
on the king’s head again,
a head full of thought and knowledge,
but grown old and humiliated by time,
only with memories of small pleasures
and fears which could not stand the gaze of joy
illumining them, so they could sleep
like a night’s dreams which passed
and were lost in the morning’s radiance.
Laments of the earth which dressed in silken veils
to hide the utter loss
which has no worldly honour.
The king’s crown seemed frayed,
its glamour faded,
and the power of the sceptre a stale force,
a shame hurriedly hidden
so as not to meet the eternal gaze.
But this picture of feeble power
which seemed like a paper toy
in the lightning flash of that meeting
where man competed against the Soul
will be forgotten, because the memory is too frail
to endure this burden.
(Photograph by Yiannis Zisis)