Kwan-yin

The voice of pain is weak and thin And yet it never dies. Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin Has tears in her eyes. Be comforted… be comforted… Be comforted, my dear… Never a heart too dead For Kwan-yin to hear.

A pony with a ragged skin Falls beneath a load; Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin Runs down the road A comforter… a comforter… A comforter shall come No pain too mean for her; No grief too dumb.

Man’s desercs and man’s sin She shall nor discover. Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin— Is the world’s lover. Ah, thief of pain… thou thief of pain… Thou thief of pain, come in. Nevera cryin vain, Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin…

Is she then a warrior against sin? On what field does she plant her banner? Bears she a sword?

The world is very full of battle; The speared and plumed forests in their ranks besiege the mountains; The flooded fields like scimitars lie between the breasts of the mountains. The mists ride on bugling winds down the mountains. Shall not Kwan-yin beara sword?

Kwan-yin is no warrior. Kwan-yin bears no sword. Even against sin Kwan-yin has no battle. This is her banner—a new day, a forgetting hour. Her hands are empty of weapons and outstretched to the world. Her feet are set on lotus flowers, The lotus flowers are set on a pale lake, And the lake is filled with the tears of the world. Kwan-yin is still, she is very still, she listens always, Kwan-yin lives remembering tears.

Wherefore remember tears? Shall tears be dried by remembrance?

Ah, Kwan-yin, mother of love, Remember Those in pain, Those who are held fast in pain of their own or another's seeking. Those for whom the world is too difficult And too beautiful to bear,

Kwan-yin, remember, remember.

Those who are blind, who shall never read the writing upon the fierce rivers. Who shall never see the slow flowing of the stars from mountain to mountain. Those who are deaf, whom music and the fellowship of words have forsaken

Kwan-yin, remember, remember.

Those whose love is buried and broken; All those under the sun who lack the thing that they love And under the moon cry out because of their lack,

Kwan-yin, remember.

Oh thou taker away of pain, Thou taker away of teats…

Wherefore remember the desolate? Is there a road of escape out of the unending wilderness? Can Kwan-yin find a way where there is no way?

Kwan-yin shall come, shall come, Surely she shall come, To bring content and a new diamond day to the desolate, To bring the touch of hands & the song of birds To those who walk terribly alone. To pare the russet earth and the fingers of the leaves in the spring That they may give up their treasure. To those who faint for lack of such treasure To listen to the long complaining of the old and the unwanted. To bring lover to lover across the world, Thrusting the stars aside and cleaving the seas and the mountains. To hold up the high paths beneath the feet of travellers. To keep the persuading roar of waters from the cars of the broken-hearted. To bring a smile to the narrow lips of death, To make beautiful the eyes of death.

Wherefore plead with death? Who shall soften the terrible heart of death?

Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin.

Ah, be still, be still… I am Kwan-yin. I am Mercy. Mercy is defeated. Mercy who battled not, is defeated. She is a captive bound to the chariot of pain. Sorrow has set his foot upon her neck. Sin has mocked her. Turn away thine eyes from Mercy, From poor Mercy. Woo her no more. Cry upon her no more.

What then are Mercy's gifts? The rose-red slopes Of hills… the secret twisted hands of trees? Shall not the moon&the stars redeem lost hopes? What fairer gifts shall Mercy bring than these?

For, in the end, when our beseeching clamor Dies with our bells; when fear devours our words; Lo, she shall come & hold the night with glamor, Lo, she shall come & sow the dawn with birds.

Ah thou irrelevant saviour, ah thou bringer Of treasure from the empty sky, ah thou Who answerest death with song, shall such a singer Be silent now? Shall thou be silent now?

Kwan-yin.