CHAPTER 25. THE THIRD TEMPLE.

January 25, 1890.

A twenty-five-year-old Black cowboy, dressed in attire appropriate to his present occupation, with an extraordinary conviction, continuously reproduced on the significantly wrinkled, due to past rain, dark-faced parchment a very peculiar series of words, which, in turn, was nothing other than a very peculiar series of his secret thoughts: now he could reflect—he was alone... alone, under no more and no less than the impressive shade of a broad-leafed sycamore. Comfortably settled by its pyramidal crown, he seemed to be in a completely different world—in that very world that his exceptionally lively mind had once created and, what is important, continued to create. It must be noted that today it was even more lively—it was today that he first became acquainted with the ideas of Timothy Thomas Fortune: it was with the help of these well-known ideas of that truly remarkable man, as if on a kind of cornerstone, that a countless number of thoughts arose in his mind, which the aforementioned twenty-five-year-old Black cowboy was so swiftly, at times both crossing out and drawing several times, pouring out or, if you will, carving, like a primitive man carving a spark, on the previously mentioned matte mulatto-ness of that parchment. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that for the most part those thoughts were, indeed, entirely incomprehensible, due to their chaotic and groundless nature, for the mind of this modern servant of the cult of Neptune, but, one way or another, he was acting—his hand continuously raised poignant lines, his mind was ablaze: he was inspired, he was determined—he ceaselessly wished to express himself, and consequently to ceaselessly know not only himself, but also human nature, and the nature of this, sublunary, world. Thus, it was precisely the intriguing thoughts of Timothy Thomas Fortune that allowed him to create the first word on that mulatto parchment... however, it was by no means they that forced him to inscribe the last word, to express the last thought, within the confines of this collection of whimsical atoms—he was driven to this by the very rude words, and consequently the very rude thoughts, of that very, extraordinarily stingy, farm owner where he currently not only worked but also lived. Not without the help of eloquent words and, what is important, eloquent actions, having driven the aforementioned twenty-five-year-old cowboy out from under the shade of the broad-leafed sycamore, the previously mentioned, relatively elderly, owner of the exceedingly prosperous farm, now mounted on an exceptionally handsome black stallion, in the blink of an eye discerned that the "idler and rake," who had instantly left his former location, had involuntarily left behind a certain trace, which was that very parchment, entirely covered with a hooked, and therefore completely incomprehensible, handwriting. Swiftly approaching that place, in the opinion of the aforementioned farmer, of the crime, he immediately snatched this, formally defined, collection of thoughts, which was laid out as follows:

"In order to think about anything, a person, first of all, needs freedom—no, not freedom of will, but... freedom of mind!... but freedom of thought!... Now I continuously absorb its fruits—the fruits of this freedom: it is magnificent, it is pure, it awakens me to create... to create something great!

I was born among a people,
Who from ancient times are known for the price,
On that good which is freedom,
On that good which is peace!
But am I free because,
I was born among the free?
But am I at peace because,
Among the peaceful I am fated—
Fated by will—to wander?
What my cattle are—so am I...
How hard it is to admit it,
But the truth—is not always... no one's!
Wishing to see much,
Wishing to behold much,
I have realized that to be powerless
Now—is to endure, endure, endure!
To endure... the conditions of freedom,
That were born by power—
Not by the power of the world, by the power of the race—
Long before this moon.
To endure... at the end and in the epilogue,
To endure... everywhere and always!
Now we are free... but legless—
So what is freedom for us then?
What is it for, if one cannot rise?
What is it for, if one cannot go?
To be considered Ahasuerus for an age,
Among the spaces of the gray earth?...
The earth... the earth where families rule,
But not always—a worthy mind!
For some—darkness, for others—learning,
For some—peace, and for others—noise...
For some—one thing, for others—another,
Was this world created like this?...
That very world where everything is alive,
For whom freedom is an idol!...
That very world where one should not be ashamed,
To drink from the same stream,
The water of purest loveliness,
With an arrogant hawk, a serpent!
That very world where the proud hawk,
Is not foreign to life in that forest,
Where the hungry wolf dwells,
With the desire to splash the crimson,
That flows in the veins of the bird.
That very world where the grim wolf,
Is not foreign to be over a chain,
Of those very crumbs, who will gnaw the flesh,
That was overgrown with gray fur.
Such is the fate for everyone and everything!
And no matter how much we wished for otherwise—
We cannot change nature for those,
Who possess the power of authority!
Just look at... the sycamore:
In pre-winter, the leaves fall—
Will its color or form hold?
Will its facade hold its life?
Will its color hold its life?
If we all die—that is a dogma—
Then what is the point of dividing races?
If all are mortal, what is the point of division?
There is no division—we are all equal!
But how to instill such an opinion,
In the minds of a huge country,
To save life and... enlightenment?
Alas... Ah! Now everything is not so!
The distribution is different now:
I bend my back for a quarter,
At the very hour when a fair-skinned one,
Having done no more than I,
Has gained fifty full-weight...
And has cursed the essence of being!
Having shelter, a wife, and food,
He is dissatisfied, truly, with everything,
And most of all—with the dwelling,
Where I live, breathe, and eat!
But am I in control of choice?
But was he in control of it?
Or was I involved in being born?
Or am I the owner of all destinies?
For that... the command of fate rules all!
I cannot go to war,
Against the heavens, against the prophet,
For the fact that the choice was different,
Than what the insane desire,
Than what fools desire!..."