An Allegory of Soul-Yearning
by Swami Kriyananda (J. Donald Walters)
The November wind-hordes camped
Outside the tensely waiting city.
For a few days their scouts—
Dark, lowering giants from the north—
Roamed the skies restlessly overhead,
Searching out every weakness
In the city's defenses.
Shrill-laughing eddies of wind
Reveled riotously through the forest,
Toasting their coming victory
With back-slapping gusts,
While drunken flurries of dust
Caroused through the coarse meadow grasses,
Chanting wildly of warfare
And of cruel conquest.
At last, worked up
Into a destructive fury,
The invaders swept,
Shouting, through the city,
Swinging sharp, icy blades that bit deep
Into the flesh of the inhabitants.
These helpless unfortunates
Huddles in little groups
On street corners.
Through chattering teeth
They passed comments fearfully
On the days ahead—
Words which the wind-hordes took up
And tossed mockingly from group to group.
Then, suddenly, the invaders were gone.
The city dwellers glanced up in relief
At a cloudless sky, and prayed
That they might enjoy yet a few more days
Of the fast-dwindling warmth.
A week passed.
Then a fresh host appeared from the north—
Wilder, more savage than the first.
Drunk with the lust for conquest
(Though the city cowered already
In abject submission)
The new wave of barbarians swept howling
Through the unresisting streets,
Then, quite as suddenly—
They, too, were gone.
And so the month of November passed.
And the city's inhabitants knew
That every fresh wave from the north
Brought them closer and closer
To the triumphal entry of
And they were afraid.