Verse 45
I saw a ladder raised through the dark sphere, and every rung was made of a silence someone had kept.
I saw a ladder raised through the dark sphere, and every rung was made of a silence someone had kept.
No choir met me there. The contemplatives had outgrown applause.
An old monk pointed upward, then removed even the gesture.
Saturn was below us like a bell that had chosen not to ring.
The first rung was solitude, which frightened the social self.
The second was patience, which frightened ambition.
The third was memory without nostalgia.
The fourth was obedience to truth rather than command.
The fifth was the relinquishing of spiritual rank.
The sixth had no name, because naming had become too loud.
I asked how high the ladder went. The monk smiled at the questioner instead.
Those who climb for heaven carry earth upward in their pockets.
Those who climb to escape hell carry hell in their shoes.
Leave both at the rung where you notice them.
Contemplation is not staring at eternity. It is ceasing to interrupt what is present.
The planet of old age guards the stair because haste cannot pass.
At the top, I found no Saturn and no ladder.
Only the quiet in which both had appeared.