The Soul


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

to breathe.

‘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.

Remember this:

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)