No, no, King. You haven't understood the artist. On that white ground, Nature will paint new colours. I don't see any sign of colours yet. They are all within. In the heart of the white dwell all the colours of the rainbow. Oh, Poet, do be quiet. You disturb me when you talk like that. King, if this youth fades, let it fade. Another Queen of Youth is coming. And she is putting a garland of pure white jasmines round your head, in order to be your bride. The wedding festival is being made ready, behind the scene. Oh, dear, Poet. You will undo everything. Do go away. Ho there, Guard. Go at once and call Sruti-bhushan. What will you do with him, King, when he comes? I will compose my mind, and practise my renunciation. Ah, King, when I heard that news, I came at once. For I can be your companion in this practice of renunciation. You? Yes, I, King. We Poets exist for this very purpose. We set men free from their desires. I don't understand you. You talk in riddles. What? You don't understand me? And yet you have been reading my poems all this while!--There is renunciation in our words, renunciation in the metre, renunciation in our music. That is why fortune always forsakes us; and we, in turn always forsake fortune. We go about, all day long, initiating the youths in the sacred cult of fortune-forsaking. What does it say to us? It says: _"Ah, brothers, don't cling to your goods and chattels, And sit ever in the corner of your room. Come out, come out into the open world. Come out into the highways of life. Come out, ye youthful Renouncers."_ But, Poet, do you really mean to say that the highway of the open world is the pathway of renunciation? Why not, King? In the open world all is change, all is life, all is movement. And he who ever moves and journeys with this life-movement, dancing and playing on his flute as he goes, he is the true Renouncer. He is the true disciple of the minstrel Poet. But how then can I get peace? I must have peace. Oh, King, we haven't the least desire for peace. We are the Renouncers. But ought we not to get that treasure, which is said to be never-changing? No, we don't covet any never-changing treasures. We are the Renouncers. What do you mean? Oh, dear, Poet, you will undo everything, if you talk like that. You are destroying my peace of mind. Call Sruti-bhushan. Let some one call the Pundit. What I mean, King, is this. We are the true Renouncers, because change is our very secret. We lose, in order to find. We have no faith in the never-changing. What do you mean? Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing, for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course. Ah, but listen, Poet--listen to those cries there outside. That is your world. How do you deal with that? King, they are your starving people.