King, it is we alone who can truly bear those sufferings, because we are like the river that flows on in gladness, thus lightening our burden, and the burden of the world. But the hard, metalled road is fixed and never-changing. And so it makes the burden more burdensome. The heavy loads groan and creak along it, and cut deep gashes in its breast. We Poets call to every one to carry all their joys and sorrows lightly, in a rhythmic measure. Our call is the Renouncers' call.
Ah, Poet, now I don't care a straw for Sruti-bhushan. Let the Pundit go hang. But, do you know what my trouble is now? Though I can't, for the life of me, understand your words, the music haunts me. Now, it's just the other way round with the Pundit. His words are clear enough, and they obey the rules of syntax quite correctly. But the tune!—No, it's no use telling you any further.
King, our words don't speak, they sing.
Well, Poet, what do you want to do now?
King, I'm going to have a race through those cries, which are rising outside your gate.
What do you mean? Famine relief is for men of business. Poets oughtn't to have anything to do with things like that.
King, business men always make their business so out of tune. That is why we Poets hasten to tune it.
Now come, my dear Poet, do speak in plainer language.
King, they work, because they must. We work, because we are in love with life. That is why they condemn us as unpractical, and we condemn them as lifeless.
But who is right, Poet? Who wins? You, or they?