Travelling from the kingdoms and godheads of the little life to the Kingdoms and godheads of the greater life.
Adventuring once more in the natal mist
Across the dangerous haze, the pregnant stir,
He through the astral chaos shore a way
Mid the grey faces of its demon gods,
The watching opacity multiplied as he moved
Its hostile mass of dead and staring eyes;
The darkness glimmered like a dying torch.
Around him an extinguished phantom glare
Peopled with shadowy and misleading shapes
The vague Inconscient’s dark and measureless cave.
His only sunlight was his spirit’s flame.
Now in the last section before he moves on to a greater life, Aswapati is once again for the last time experiencing the fog and the dangerous haze of vital dark emotions that are stirring. Sri Aurobindo says as Aswapati cut a way through the astral chaos that moves the little life, the grey faces of demons and the ambiguous dead staring eyes multiplied. The darkness flickered like a dying torch, like an extinguished imaginary glare of shadows and misleading shapes of people in that vague, inconscient’s dark and measureless cave. In that cave of dark little life, “His only sunlight was his spirit’s flame." But as he moves on in the gloom towards the kingdoms and the godheads of the greater life, he will follow life's evolution out of matter, ending this canto.
Huta paints Aswapati, and his only sunlight is his spirit’s flame. In the Inconscient’s dark and measureless cave, amid its hostile mass of dead and staring eyes, Aswapati is cutting a way through the astral chaos that moves the little life.
Hoping for light, walks now with freer pace
And feels approach a breath of wider air,
So he escaped from that grey anarchy.
...
Into an ineffectual world he came,
A purposeless region of arrested birth
Where being from non-being fled and dared
To live but had no strength long to abide.
Above there gleamed a pondering brow of sky
Tormented, crossed by wings of doubtful haze
Adventuring with a voice of roaming winds
And crying for a direction in the void
Like blind souls looking for the selves they lost
And wandering through unfamiliar worlds;
Wings of vague questioning met the query of Space.
...
After denial dawned a dubious hope,
A hope of self and form and leave to live
And the birth of that which never yet could be,
...
And a touch of sure delight in unsure things:
To a strange uncertain tract his journey came
Where consciousness played with unconscious self
And birth was an attempt or episode.
...
Life laboured in a strange and mythic air
Denuded of her sweet magnificent suns.
In worlds imagined, never yet made true,
A lingering glimmer on creation’s verge,
One strayed and dreamed and never stopped to achieve:
To achieve would have destroyed that magic Space.
...
The marvels of a twilight wonderland
Full of a beauty strangely, vainly made,
A surge of fanciful realities,
Dim tokens of a Splendour sealed above,
Awoke the passion of the eyes’ desire,
Compelled belief on the enamoured thought
And drew the heart but led it to no goal.
...
A magic flowed as if of moving scenes
That kept awhile their fugitive delicacy
Of sparing lines limned by an abstract art
In a rare scanted light with faint dream-brush
On a silver background of incertitude.
An infant glow of heavens near to morn,
A fire intense conceived but never lit,
Caressed the air with ardent hints of day.
...
Above there gleamed a pondering brow of sky
Tormented, crossed by wings of doubtful haze
A magic flowed as if of moving scenes
That kept awhile their fugitive delicacy
Of sparing lines limned by an abstract art
In a rare scanted light with faint dream-brush
On a silver background of incertitude.
Aswapati has escaped from that grey anarchy of the little life, which is beset by forces from the lower vital planes. He walks now with a freer pace and feels approaching a breath of wider air, arriving at the very first world of the greater life. Sri Aurobindo pens it as an ineffectual world, where one is drifting, dreaming, and crying for a direction in the void. Like blind souls looking for the selves they lost and wandering through unfamiliar worlds. Above there is a pondering peak of sky. A region of dubious hope. There are marvels of twilight wonderland, a magic flowing as if of delicate moving scenes. Sparing lines described by an abstract art. Like a faint dreambrush on a silver background of doubt. In that wonderland, Aswapati is experiencing the beginnings—the first subtle vibrations—of the greater life to come. Now begins a new canto: The Kingdoms and Godheads of the Greater Life.
Huta paints the magic of abstract art with a faint dreambrush on a silver background of incertitude. The beginnings—the first subtle vibrations—of the greater life to come.
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