lunes, 14 de marzo de 2011

The mountain boy and the master visionary II

So, up in the hills, utterly apart, eclosed only by the snow, Rabrindanath knew that in order to understand what was said to him by the life about him, he himself should not talk.
It is the folly of humans that they will talk when a river speaks, that even if they are alone they will say things to themselves, in their minds.
But no human being had ever said any truth, since no one had had the patience to fully hear it from the silence. You only know a human knows some of the truth when he or she says nothing. Those who do are indistinguisable from the rain or the snow. They affect you silently.
If some one can tell you a truth, he will hurt you unwittingly. Who can open the eyes of a proud ignorant without causing him collapse? And the bearer of the truth is put to death.
It was the time of war and of great natural disasters. Had there ever been any other time on this earth of turbulent streams of water, fire and blood? Rabrindanath wondered one thing alone: what was the logic behind those who had just been born dying suddenly, in an earthquake, in the burning waves of a volcano?
He was alone in a valley high up in the mountains: It was snowing heavily, yet he could hear streams of swift water running under the snow, the wind far in the summits, and invisible wild horses galloping in the mist. The pain of knowing was within him exclusively. Why?
He was told then that he should not contemplate death as being real. It was the pain of dying, and the losing of their existence, that humans feared. But the sooner one died, the quicker one would return, for the body is nothing, and the soul finds bodies to reenter as soon as it flees the plane of the material.
Being born also caused pain. Pain is the result of any process and of any transformation, and of all journeys from spirit to matter and back to spirit.
Rabrindanath heard that from all the things that moved about him, the snow, the wind.
He walked a long time , until night came. Then he fell on the snow, exhausted.
He could die, or not, it didn´t matter.
Horses of cold ice, blue, white and purple, were flying across a huge pale moon. The sea was roaring far away in his dream. And the world was at peace, although drowning in tears.

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