THE CUP
185
jowl with such squalor , such
poverty , such want .
Is
there a God ? Could there be a God ? A power of Light
compatible
with
such
dismal
darkness .
Is
there
a
life
eternal ?
The grim horror of such
a possibility
grips us by the throat . Is there an eternal Death ? Ah !
Saviour, deliver
us from the
misery of our lot ; lead
us to the realms of eternal
Rest , where rich and poor ,
good and bad , are made one , lost in the depths of the
Lethean
sea.
And what can
all
this
lead
us
to
,
this
progress
through misery
?
To the great archetype
the Arahat
ship
of
Buddha
.
It
was
by
gazing
on
the sunken
eyes
of
a
corpse
,
so
the legend runs
,
that Gautama
forsook
pleasure
for
a
life
of
pity
.
Life
is
feodal
to
Death
,
and
our ultimate
sleep
is
greater than our first awakening
.
The womb
was dark
;
from out
it
sprang
the thought
less
;
the
tomb
is
darker
still
;
into
it
creeps
the
thoughtful
.
The dead
are our
gods
,
soon
we
shall
strike
our
tent
for
the
last
time
and join the great
caravanserai
of
the departed
:
Wend
now thy way with brow
serene
,
fear not thy humble tale
to
tell
:
The whispers
of
the
Desert
-
wind
;
the tinkling
of
the camel's
bell
.
This
beauty
of
Death
as
the
releaser
from
the
temptations
of
life
,
is
finely
drawn
by
the subtle pen
of
Aleister Crowley
.
Death
is
no
longer the
grub
slimed
skull
,
about
whose
sticky lips
buzz
the blue
blow
-
flies
of
decay
;
but rather
a
divine goddess
,
whose
arms
are ever about
us
,
and
whose
kiss
is
the kiss
of
a
mother
closing the
eyes
of
her
child
in
gentle
sleep
:
|
The Kasidah
.
R. Burton
.