The Song of Burdens Dropped
Do you own defeat at the hand of youth?
Yes.
Have you met at last the ageless Old, who ever grows new?
Yes.
Have you come out of the walls that crumble and bury those whom they shelter?
Yes.
(Another group sings.)
Do you own defeat at the hands of life?
Yes.
Have you passed through death to stand at last face to face with the Deathless?
Yes.
Have you dealt the blow to the demon dust, that swallows your city Immortal?
Yes.
(Spring's flowers surround him and sing.)
The Song of Fresh Beauty
We waited by the wayside counting moments till you appeared in the April morning.
You come as a soldier-boy winning life at death's gate,—
Oh, the wonder of it.
We listen amazed at the music of your young voice.
Your mantle is blown in the wind like the fragrance of the Spring.
The white spray of malati flowers in your hair shines like star-clusters.
A fire burns through the veil of your smile,—
Oh, the wonder of it.
And who knows where your arrows are hidden which smite death?
(Night)
[The rear stage is darkened, and the light on the main stage dimmed to the heavy purple blackness of mourning.]
(Enter the Band of Youths.)