A
wandering madman was
seeking the touchstone, with matted locks, tawny and dust-laden, and
body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of
his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its
mate.
Before
him the endless ocean roared.
The
garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures, mocking the
ignorance that knew not their meaning.
Maybe
he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for the search had
become his life,--
Just
as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the unattainable--
Just
as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can never be
reached--
Even
so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks still roamed in
search of the touchstone.
One
day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you come
at this golden chain about your waist?"
The
madman started--the chain that once was iron was verily gold; it was not
a dream, but he did not know when it had changed.
He
struck his forehead wildly--where, O where had he without knowing it
achieved success?
It
had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the chain, and to
throw them away without looking to see if a change had come; thus the
madman found and lost the touchstone.
The
sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold.
The
madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost treasure, with
his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart in the dust, like a tree
uprooted.