Human life moves in the average pitch between the godlike and the animal kind. This is the tragedy of our existence that we are born to be even as the gods but we are unable to break free from the chains of mortal ignorance.
A specious idol
A spell is laid upon his glorious strengths;
He has lost the inner Voice that led his thoughts,
And masking the oracular tripod seat
A specious Idol fills the marvel shrine.
Our strength is maimed by desire that distorts and perverts the voice of the soul within us. Instead of God we have placed the ego in the shrine of our heart.
A homeless fire
The great Illusion wraps him in its veils,
The soul’s deep intimations come in vain,
In vain is the unending line of seers,
The sages ponder in unsubstantial light,
The poets lend their voice to outward dreams,
A homeless fire inspires the prophet tongues.
Our life is filled with illusions and delusions and the promptings of the soul go in vain. The sages and seers too are unable to ascend to the true heights of Glory. The poets lend their voice to outward things. The prophets too are inspired by a fire that has no base anywhere.
The Inconscient blocks all things done
Heaven’s flaming lights descend and back return,
The luminous Eye approaches and retires;
Eternity speaks, none understands its word;
Fate is unwilling and the Abyss denies;
The Inconscient’s mindless waters block all done.
Intimations and strength from heavens come but return back since the doors of man are closed and his consciousness not receptive to higher things. The Divine Himself comes down and shows us truths sublime and gives us the Way but none really hears or is ready to understand its word. Fate resists the human advance and the Inconscient blocks and denies us the needed ascension.
One hour to love
Only a little lifted is Mind’s screen;
The Wise who know see but one half of Truth,
The strong climb hardly to a low-peaked height,
The hearts that yearn are given one hour to love.
Only a little the mind sees. Even the wise know but only half of the Truth. The strongest climb low and the hearts can love only for a while before it fades away.
The gods are still too few
His tale half told, falters the secret Bard;
The gods are still too few in mortal forms.”
The soul within falters after a few steps unable to write the full story. Man meant to be even as the gods is still far from that high peak.
Such is the strange predicament of human life wherein all our higher possibilities are as if maimed and stifled and prevented by the forces of Fate and the Inconscient at work.