The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Writings: Prose and Poems(Original and Translated)/My Play is Done

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MY PLAY IS DONE
(Written in the Spring of 1895 in New York)

Ever rising, ever falling with the waves of time,

still rolling on I go

From fleeting scene to scene ephemeral,

with life's currents' ebb and flow.

Oh! I am sick of this unending force;

these shows they please no more.

This ever running, never reaching,

nor e'en a distant glimpse of shore!

From life to life I'm waiting at the gates,

alas, they open not.

Dim are my eyes with vain attempt

to catch one ray long sought.

On little life's high, narrow bridge

I stand and see below

The struggling, crying, laughing throng.

For what? No one can know.

In front yon gates stand frowning dark,

and say: "No farther way,

This is the limit; tempt not Fate,

bear it as best you may;

Go, mix with them and drink this cup

and be as mad as they.

Who dares to know but comes to grief;

stop then, and with them stay."

Alas for me. I cannot rest.

This floating bubble, earth—

Its hollow form, its hollow name,

its hollow death and birth—

For me is nothing. How I long

to get beyond the crust

Of name and form! Ah! ope the gates;

to me they open must.

Open the gates of light, O Mother, to me Thy tired son. I long, oh, long to return home!

Mother, my play is done.

You sent me out in the dark to play,

and wore a frightful mask;

Then hope departed, terror came,

and play became a task.

Tossed to and fro, from wave to wave

in this seething, surging sea

Of passions strong and sorrows deep,

grief is, and joy to be,

Where life is living death, alas! and death—

who knows but 'tis

Another start, another round of this old wheel

of grief and bliss?

Where children dream bright, golden dreams,

too soon to find them dust,

And aye look back to hope long lost

and life a mass of rust!

Too late, the knowledge age cloth gain;

scarce from the wheel we're gone

When fresh, young lives put their strength

to the wheel, which thus goes on

From day to day and year to year.

'Tis but delusion's toy,

False hope its motor; desire, nave;

its spokes are grief and joy.

I go adrift and know not whither.

Save me from this fire!

Rescue me, merciful Mother, from floating with desire! Turn not to me Thy awful face,

'tis more than I can bear.

Be merciful and kind to me,

to chide my faults forbear.

Take me, O Mother, to those shores

where strifes for ever cease;

Beyond all sorrows, beyond tears,

beyond e'en earthly bliss;

Whose glory neither sun, nor moon,

nor stars that twinkle bright,

Nor flash of lightning can express.

They but reflect its light.

Let never more delusive dreams

veil off Thy face from me.

My play is done, O Mother,

break my chains and make me free!