Kwan-yin

 
Kwan-yin shall come, shall come,
Surely she shall come,
To bring content and a new diamond day to the desolate,
To bring the touch of hands & the song of birds
To those who walk terribly alone.
To part the russet earth and the fingers of the leaves in the spring
That they may give up their treasure.
To those who faint for lack of such treasure
To listen to the long complaining of the old and the unwanted.
To bring lover to lover across the world,
Thrusting the stars aside and cleaving the seas and the mountains.
To hold up the high paths beneath the feet of travellers.
To keep the persuading roar of waters from the ears of the broken-hearted.
To bring a smile to the narrow lips of death,
To make beautiful the eyes of death.
 

A woman's voice again sings, unheeded, from behind the veil of smoke.

 
Wherefore plead with death?
Who shall soften the terrible heart of death?
 

All, in urgent but slow unison:

 
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
 

The golden face of Kwan-yin above the altar changes suddenly and terribly, and becomes like a masque of fear. The lanterns flare spasmodically. The voice can now be identified as Kwan-yin's, but still the priests stand unhearing with their heads bowed, and still the passionless bell rings.

Kwan-yin, in a screaming voice:

 
Ah, be still, be still…
I am Kwan-yin.
I am Mercy.
Mercy is defeated.
Mercy who battled not, is defeated.
She is a captive bound to the chariot of pain.