On the linen wrappings of certain mummified remainsfound near the Etrurian coast are invaluable writingsthat await translation.Quem colorem habet sapientia?Ordinary men fulfill themselvesin the company of their fellows.I am told of a peasant who, one morning when mistslay across his field,picked up a feather that had dropped fromthe great horse, Pegasus; who placed the featherin his cap and abandoned the worldfor a dream.I have heard that when the wild geese move in their seasona strange tide is raised; and long after they have gonethe fowl of the barnyard leap up frantically into the airwith shrill, desperate cries—their nut-like headsstuffed and disordered with vestigial recollectionsurging them from domestic felicity toward unrememberedchasms in the presence of another, bolder skein.Nothing existed before me; nothing will exist after me.Myth, art, and dreams are but emanationsfrom ancestral spheres.Karma, which is the wheel of fate,is indestructible. A new world shall be bornthat it may continue to fulfill its endless process.We are to regard the world as an empty trifle,so said Buddha; then alonewill it yield happiness, enabling us to live blissfullythroughout life’s vicissitudes.Let us become Yasoda, the soul of woman, which calls outto Lord Krishna in the fullness of her love, and seesin him the universe.As thou to me,so I to thee.