SHE IS STILL a child, my lord. She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well. She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust. She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not-and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands. When the storm bursts and darkness is over the sky she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror. She is afraid that she may fail in service to you. But with a smile you watch her at her game. You know her. The child sitting in the dust is your destined bride; her play will be stilled and deepened into love.
CHILD, HOW happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. Perhaps you glance at me and think, 'What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!' Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud pies. I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain. In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
