The Parliament of Birds

The hoopoe said: "How has this dog betrayed
And brought to dust whatever plans you made!
The Self's squint-eyed and cannot guide you well,
Part dog, part parasite, part infidel.
When you are praised your Self swells up with pride
(Aware that praise is quite unjustified);
There's no hope for the Self -- the dog grows fatter
The more it hears men fawn, deceive and flatter.
What is your childhood but a negligence,
A time of carelessness and ignorance?
What is your youth but madness, strife and danger,
Knowledge that in this world you are a stranger?
What is your age but torpid helplessness,
The flesh and spirit sapped by long distress?
Until this dog, the Self, can be subdued,
Our life is folly, endlessly renewed;
If all of life from birth to death is vain,
Blank nothingness will be our only gain --
Such slaves the Self owns! What a catalogue!
How many rush to worship this foul dog!
The Self is hell -- a furnace belching fire,
An icy pit as Price succeeds Desire,
And though a hundred thousand die of grief,
That this same dog should die is past belief.