Oh, King, we haven't the least desire for peace. We are the Renouncers.
But ought we not to get that treasure, which is said to be never-changing?
No, we don't covet any never-changing treasures. We are the Renouncers.
What do you mean? Oh, dear, Poet, you will undo everything, if you talk like that. You are destroying my peace of mind. Call Sruti-bhushan. Let some one call the Pundit.
What I mean, King, is this. We are the true Renouncers, because change is our very secret. We lose, in order to find. We have no faith in the never-changing.
What do you mean?
Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing, for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course.
Ah, but listen, Poet—listen to those cries there outside. That is your world. How do you deal with that?
King, they are your starving people.
My people, Poet? Why do you call them that? They are the world's people, not mine. Have I created their miseries? What can your youthful Poet Renouncers do to relieve sufferings like theirs? Tell me that.