IV

I only know in the midnight, Something will be born of me. The village drowses in the darkness, But aloft in the temple

There is a thud of gongs and a shuffle of hollow voices In the dark corridors. The golden temple That kindled like a rose against the sunset,

Now is dark and silent, One light glimmers from its facade. In the inner shrine One stiff golden curtain

Hangs from floor to roof. Black, impassive, helmeted In felt like stiff black warriors, The lamas slowly gather,

Kneeling in a row. The hollow brazen trumpets Blare and snore. The drums, festooned with skulls,

Roar. Suddenly with a clash of gongs, And a squeal from ear-splitting bugles, The golden veil is rent.

Cavernous blue darkness! And within it Smiling, Naked,

Rose-empurpled, Rippling with crimson-violet light, behold the god. Hail, great jewel in the lotus blossom! Rosy flame that kindling

Flashes on the emptiness Or Nirvana's sea! Before the shrine, as before, Once more the golden curtain,

And the black shapes vanish. Aloft in the hollow temple There is a shuffle of feet and a sound of hollow voices, Soon lost.

The village drowses in the darkness: Like a vast black cube The temple looms above it, There is no light on its facade.

Suddenly, all the golden temple Kindles like a rose against the dawn. I only know in the midnight Something has been born of me.