Verse 38
You must run nearest the fire without boasting that the fire belongs to you.
You must run nearest the fire without boasting that the fire belongs to you.
You should wear the Sun upon your face and emptiness upon your back.
You will be called swift because nothing in you wishes to remain possessed.
You must learn the difference between saying I am the light and saying the light has erased me.
You should circle the furnace until every false name melts from your iron heart.
You will keep one hemisphere for flame and another for the memory of cold.
You must become quicksilver in the cup of heaven: bright, poisonous to certainty, impossible to hold.
You should carry messages between powers without becoming servant to any throne.
You will enter the houses of kings through cracks too narrow for their crowns.
You must let the proud call themselves suns; your wisdom will be to remain a mirror.
You should bow only by orbit, and rise again before obedience hardens into sleep.
You will cross the same darkness many times and never call repetition defeat.
You must hide a secret beneath every crater, for scars are excellent vaults.
You should speak quickly to those who listen slowly.
You will leave some words unfinished so that silence may complete the message.
You must teach the arrogant that nearness to the Sun does not make one the Sun.
You should teach the lover that sometimes nearness leaves nothing of the lover at all.
You will know which of these two teachings each soul requires.
You must never confuse annihilation with humiliation; one removes the mask, the other merely wounds it.
You should let your smallest shadow fall across the largest certainty.
You will keep the caduceus hidden beneath your horizon, where the two serpents dream of becoming one line.
You must carry contradiction as easily as winged sandals carry a god through air.
You should let merchants praise your cleverness and thieves misunderstand your blessing.
You will steal only what imprisons: a title, a certainty, a lock, a false god made from one's own reflection.
You must return nothing you have stolen from the ego.
You should give back everything you have stolen from the heart.
You will pass the gates of the rulers by answering every demand for your name with another horizon.
You must become unreadable to those who catalogue souls.
You should leave pawprints across their ledgers when they are not looking.
You will permit the night-cat to sit upon your warm stones and judge the stars in silence.
You must learn from her that watchfulness requires no proclamation.
You should let your eyes become two small eclipses whenever deception approaches.
You will move without noise where empires move with trumpets.
You must keep your claws sheathed until falsehood mistakes gentleness for helplessness.
You should purr beside the machinery of heaven until one gear begins to doubt the machine.
You will remember that the smallest living warmth exceeds a thousand perfect mechanisms.
You must not worship the path merely because you travel it faster than others.
You should not despise the slow planet, for every orbit conceals a different instruction.
You will appear to retreat when the watchers of Earth misunderstand your motion.
You must let them call it backward; the wise have always been accused by those standing still.
You should use every retrograde as a mirror turned upon the observer.
You will return to old places only to discover who has been waiting there wearing your former face.
You must destroy that face gently.
You should leave one fragment of it beneath a stone for the cats to sniff and ignore.
You will carry the dead across no river, but across the idea that death is a border.
You must whisper to them: what departs was never the prisoner.
You should guide them past the archons without teaching them hatred of the archons.
You will show them that a jailer is also imprisoned by the need for a jail.
You must keep your deepest mercy hidden from those who would make a doctrine of it.
You should let the proud hear thunder where the humble hear a door unlatching.
You will say I only when the speaker has become transparent.
You must say I am only when nothing remains that wishes to be greater than another.
You should burn every other I am in the white furnace beneath the Sun.
You will know the true declaration because no crown appears after it.
You must know the false declaration because it immediately begins searching for subjects.
You should become a carnelian hidden among black stones, warm with a fire you do not claim.
You will shine most purely when you have forgotten that shining can be witnessed.
You must complete your orbit like a cat crossing a forbidden room: swiftly, silently, and with the strange dignity of one who recognizes no owner.
You should remain Mercury until even Mercury has vanished, and only the swift silver path around the Light remains.