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

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!