Like turning wheels

We are controlled by the hands of

Time where e’er man resides. Say not

“This man is famed and learned, or

Master of knowledge from the angels

Sent,” for in the city the best of

Man is but one of a flock, led by

The shepherd in strong voice. And he

Who follows not the command must soon

Stand before his killers.

Youth: There is no shepherd over man in

The beautiful field, nor sheep to

Graze nor hearts to bleed. Winter

Departs with her garment and Spring

Must come, but only by God’s great

Command. Your people are born as

Slaves, and by your tyrants their

Souls are torn. Where e’er goes the

Leader, so go they, and woe unto

Him who would refuse!

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

The song of the flute is more sublime

Than all glory of kings in all of time.

Age: Life amid the throngs is but brief

And drug-laden slumber, mixed with

Mad dreams and spectres and fears.

The secret of the heart is encased

In sorrow, and only in sorrow is

Found our joy, while happiness serves

But to conceal the deep mystery of life,

And if sorrow I were to abandon for

The calm of the field, naught but

Emptiness would be my lot.

Youth: The joy of one is the sorrow of the

Other, and there is no sorrow in the

Beautiful field, or sadness brought

By scornful deed. The frolicsome

Breeze brings joy to sad hearts, and

Your sorrow of heart is but a dream of

Fancy, passing swiftly, like the quick

Brook. Your sorrow would in the field

Vanish, as the autumn leaf is sped off

On the forehead of the brook, and your

Heart would be calm, as the broad lake

Is calm under the great lights of God.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

Heaven’s melody alone will ever remain,

All of earth’s objects are but vain.

Age: Few are those content with life and far

From care. The river of the field is

But a carrier of emptiness; the river

Of human life has been diverted into old

Cups of knowledge and presented to man

Who drinks of life’s richness but heeds

Not its warnings. He is joyous when the

Cups are of happiness, but he grumbles

When he prays to God and asks for the

Wealth he scarce merits. And when he

Attains his goal of iron riches his

Dreams of fear enslave him forever.

This world is but a wine shop whose

Owner is Time, and the drunkards

Demand much for little offering.

Youth: There is no wine in the beautiful

Field, for glorious intoxication of

The soul is the reward of all who

Seek it in the bosom of Nature. The

Cloud which shelters the moon must

Be pierced with ardour if one needs

Behold the moon’s light. The people

Of the city abuse the wine of Time,

For they think upon it as a temple,

And they drink of it with ease and

With unthinking, and they flee,

Scurrying into old age with deep

But unknowing sorrow.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

The song of God must ever stay,

All other things must pass away.

Age: Religion to man is like your field,

For it is planted with hope and

Tilled by the faithful; or it is

Tended by the shivering ignorant,

Fearing the fire of hell; or it is

Sowed by the strong in wealth of

Empty gold who look upon religion

As a kind of barter, ever seeking

Profit in earthly reward. But

Their hearts are lost despite

Their throbbing, and the product

Of their spiritual farming is but

The unwanted weed of the valley.

Youth: There is no religion in the Godly

And beautiful field, nor any heretic

Nor color nor creed, for when the

Nightingale sings, all is beauty and

Joy and religion, and the spirit is

Soothed and the reward is peace.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

Prayer is my music, love is my string;

The moaning flute will surely sound

The misery of those in the city bound.

Age: What of justice and earthly rule

That makes us laugh and weep? For the

Criminal who is weak and poor the

Narrow cell or death awaits; but

Honour and glory await the rich who

Conceal their crimes behind their

Gold and silver and inherited glory.

Youth: All is justice in Nature’s field; to

None does Nature grant neglect or

Favor. The trees are grown in each

Other’s way, but when the breeze is

Scampering all will sway. Justice in

The field is like the snow, for it

Blankets all things, and when the sun

Appears, all things must emerge in

Strength and in beauty and in fragrance.

Give me the flute and let me sing

For the song of God is everything;

The truth of the flute will e’er remain,

While crimes and men are but disdain.

Age: The people of the city are enmeshed

In the web of the tyrant who rages

In fury when he grows old. In the

Lion’s den there is a scent, and be

The lion there or not, the fox will

Not approach. The starling is timid

When he soars the infinite, but the

Eagle is proud, even when he dies.

The strength of the spirit alone is

The power of powers, and must in time

Crumble to powder all things opposing

It. Do not condemn, but pity the

Faithless and their weakness and their

Ignorance and their nothingness.

Youth: The field sees not the weak nor the

Strong, for to Nature, all are one

And all are strong. When the lion

Roars, the field does not say, “He is

A terrible beast … let us flee!” Man’s

Shadow passes in speed through his

Brief and sorrowful visit to earth,

And rests in the vast firmament of

Thought, which is heaven’s field; and

Like leaves of autumn that fall to the

Heart of earth, all must again appear in

The great springtime of colourful youth,

Beautiful in their re-birth. And the leaf

Of the tree will thrive in hearty life

After man’s objects of substance perish

Into vapour and forgottenness.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

For strength of soul my song will bring;

The heavenly flute will long be cherished

But man and his greed will soon be perished.

Age: Man is weak by his own hand, for he

Has refashioned God’s law into his own

Confining manner of life, chaining

Himself with the coarse irons of the

Rules of society which he desired; and

He is steadfast in refusing to be aware

Of the great tragedy he has cast upon

Himself and his children and their sons.

Man has erected on this earth a prison

Of quarrels from which he cannot now

Escape, and misery is his voluntary lot.

Youth: To Nature all are alive and all are

Free. The earthly glory of man is an

Empty dream, vanishing with the bubbles

In the rocky stream. When the almond

Tree spreads her blossoms on the small

Plants growing below, she does not say,

“How rich am I! How poor are they!”

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

The melody of God will never wane,

While all on earth is naught but vain.

Age: The kindness of the people is but an

Empty shell containing no gem or

Precious pearl. With two hearts do

People live; a small one of deep

Softness, the other of steel. And

Kindness is too often a shield,

And generosity too often a sword.

Youth: The field has but one great heart;

The willow lives by the oak, and

Has no fear of its strength or

Its size. And the peacock’s garb

Is magnificent to behold, but the

Peacock knows not whether it be a

Thing of beauty or of ugliness.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

For music is the hymn of the meek,

Mightier than the strong and the weak.

Age: The people of the city feign great

Wisdom and knowledge, but their

Fancy remains false forever, for

They are but experts of imitation.

It gives them pride to calculate

That a barter will bring no loss

Or gain. The idiot imagines himself

A king and no power can alter his

Great thoughts and dreams. The

Proud fool mistakes his mirror for

The sky, and his shadow for a

Moon that gleams high from the

Heavens.

Youth: No clever or handsome inhabit

The field, for Nature is not in

Need of beauty or sweetness. The

Running stream is sweet nectar,

And as it broadens and stills,

It reflects only the truth of

Its neighbours and self.

Give me the flute and let me sing,

And through my soul let music ring;

The moaning flute is more divine

Than the golden cup of deep, red wine.

Age: The kind of love for which man

Struggles and dies is like the

Bush that bears no fruit. Only

The wholesome love, like the

Enormous sorrow of soul, will

Enliven and lift the heart into

Understanding.