FORGAEL. Have the birds passed us? I could hear your voice. But there were others. AIBRIC. I have seen nothing pass. FORGAEL. You’re certain of it? I never wake from sleep But that I am afraid they may have passed, For they’re my only pilots. If I lost them Straying too far into the north or south, I’d never come upon the happiness That has been promised me. I have not seen them These many days; and yet there must be many Dying at every moment in the world, And flying towards their peace. AIBRIC. Put by these thoughts, And listen to me for awhile. The sailors Are plotting for your death. FORGAEL. Have I not given More riches than they ever hoped to find? And now they will not follow, while I seek The only riches that have hit my fancy. AIBRIC. What riches can you find in this waste sea Where no ship sails, where nothing that’s alive Has ever come but those man-headed birds, Knowing it for the world’s end? FORGAEL. Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world. AIBRIC. Who knows that shadows May not have driven you mad for their own sport? FORGAEL. Do you, too, doubt me? Have you joined their plot? AIBRIC. No, no, do not say that. You know right well That I will never lift a hand against you. FORGAEL. Why should you be more faithful than the rest, Being as doubtful? AIBRIC. I have called you master Too many years to lift a hand against you. FORGAEL. Maybe it is but natural to doubt me. You’ve never known, I’d lay a wager on it, A melancholy that a cup of wine, A lucky battle, or a woman’s kiss Could not amend. AIBRIC. I have good spirits enough. I’ve nothing to complain of but heartburn, And that is cured by a boiled liquorice root. FORGAEL. If you will give me all your mind awhile— All, all, the very bottom of the bowl— I’ll show you that I am made differently, That nothing can amend it but these waters, Where I am rid of life—the events of the world— What do you call it?—that old promise-breaker, The cozening fortune-teller that comes whispering, ‘You will have all you have wished for when you have earned Land for your children or money in a pot.’ And when we have it we are no happier, Because of that old draught under the door, Or creaky shoes. And at the end of all We have been no better off than Seaghan the fool, That never did a hand’s turn. Aibric! Aibric! We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the burnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh, And find their laughter sweeter to the taste For that brief sighing. AIBRIC. If you had loved some woman— FORGAEL.