As if without any help,
He bears upon himself the burden of all.
And thus in quietude, in the icy solitude,
He awaits and readily accepts the onslaught of all
Like the foundation of a building,
he silently submits
to being burdened.
He multiplies his hands by ten;
He magnifies his heart;
His spiritual growth must be such that he can respond
to all those turning to him;
Yet he is not afraid.
He knows that his time draws near.
The knocking ones, the menacing
and the oppressive ones,
They must come; and he must meet them.
And for a time he is surrounded by them,
his exit barred.
But the ordeal is not without end.
For nearby is the possibility of the closest path.
Such is the burden of being at the center.
And good it is if friendly hands stretch out to one,
If the chorus is imbued with good will.
Leaves from Morya’s Garden, Helena Roerich