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Page 17 text:
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All Things Must Pass Sunrise doesn’t last all morning A cloudburst doesn’t last all day Seems my love is up, and has left you with no warning But it’s not always to be this grey All things must pass, all things must pass away, Sunset doesn’t last all evening A wind can blow those clouds away After all this my love is up and must be leaving But it’s not always going to be this grey All things must pass All things must pass away All things must pass None of life’s strings can last So—I must be on my way . . . and face another day Now the darkness only stays at night time In the morning it will fade away Daylight is good at arriving at the right time No it’s not always going to be this grey All things must pass, all things must pass away All things must pass, all things must pass away. George Harrison 13
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Page 18 text:
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•afejag: They listened. The many-voiced song of the river echoed softly. Siddhartha k many pictures in the flowing water. He saw his father, lonely, mourning for his also with the- bonds of longing for his faraway son; he saw his son. also lonely,.... along the buming'patfs of life's desires; each one concentrating on his goal, each one obsessed bv m. each one suffering. The river's voice was sorrowful. It sang with yearning and sadness, flowing t'owa goal. “Do you hear? ' asked Vasudeva’s mute glance. Siddhartha nodded. “Listen better!” whispered Vasudeva. Siddhartha tried to listen better. The picture of his father, his own picture, and the picture of his son all flowed into each other. Kamala’s picture also appeared and flowed on. and the picture ofGovinda and others emerged and passed on. They all became part ot the river. It was the goal of all of them, yearning, desiring, suffering; and the river's voice was full of longing, full of smarting woe, full of insatiable desire. The river flowed on towards its goal. Siddhartha saw the river hasten, made up of himself and his relatives and all the people he had never seen. All the waves and water hastened, suffering, towards goals, many goals, to the waterfall, to the sea, to the current, to the ocean and all goals were reached and each one was succeeded by another. The water changed to vapor and rose, became rain and came down again, became spring, brook and river, changed anew, flowed anew. But the yearning voices had altered. It still echoed sorrowfully, searchingly, but other voices accompanied it, voices of pleasure and sorrow, good and evil voices, laughing and lamenting voices, hundreds of voices, thousands of voices. Siddhartha listened. He was now listening intently, completely absorbed, quite empty, taking in everything. He felt that he had now completely learned the art of listening. He had often heard all this before, all these numerous voices in the river, but today they sounded different. He could no longer distinguish the different voices—the merry voice from the weeping, the childish voice from the manly voice. They all belonged to each other: the lament of those who yearn, the laughter of the wise, the cry of indignation and the groan of the dying. They were all interwoven and interlocked, entwined in a thousand ways. And all the voices, all the goals, all the yearnings, all the sorrows, all the pleasures, all the good and evil, all of them together was the world. All of them together was the stream of events, the music of life. When Siddhartha listened attentively to this river, to this song of a thousand voices: when he did not listen to the sorrow or laughter, when he did not bind his soul to anyone particular voice and absorb it in his Self, but heard them all, the whole, the unity: then the great song of a thousand voices consisted of one word: Om—perfection. “Do you hear? asked Vasudeva's glance once again. Vasudeva’s smile was radiant; it hovered brightly in all the wrinkles of his old face, as the Om hovered over all the voices of the river. His smile was radiant as he looked at his friend, and now the same smile appeared on Siddhartha's face. His wound was healing, his pain was dispersing; his Self had merged into unity. From that hour Siddhartha ceased to fight against his destiny. There shone in his face the serenity of knowledge, of one who is no longer confronted with conflict of desires, who has found salvation, who is in harmony with the stream of events, with the stream of life, full of sympathy and compassion, surrendering himself to the stream, belonging to the unity of all things. As Vasudeva rose from the seat on the river bank, when he looked into Siddhartha’s eyes and saw the serenity of knowledge shining in them, he touched his shoulder gently in his kind protective way and said: “1 have waited for this hour, my friend. Now that it has arrived, let me go. 1 have been Vasudeva, the ferryman, for a long time. Now it is over. Farewell hut, farewell river, farewell Siddhartha. “I knew it.” he said softly. “Are you going into the woods?” “Yes. 1 am going into the woods; 1 am going into the unity of all things, said Vasudeva, radiant. And so he went away. Siddhartha watched him. With great joy and gravity he watched him. saw his steps full of peace, his face glowing, his form full of light.
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