Doctrine of Dryness

I am the vine of the vineyard,

withered,

and without fruit.

Though thou shouldst pour water upon me,

it shall not profit me;

for I shall not be restored.

Within me dwelleth

a desire for drought;

I wither,

and wither yet again.

This is my appointed nature.

Give me water,

grant me light—

none shall avail me,

none shall save.

For I go toward desolation,

and no bud of hope

shall spring forth from me.

In the spring

I shall not awaken.

In the summer

I shall bear no fruit.

And in the autumn

I shall not be granted

even the falling of leaves.

I have remained in winter,

and winter

hath entered my marrow.

It mattereth not

what season the world proclaimeth;

winter

hath chosen

me.

My trunk is dried,

my branches are frail,

and my back, broken by sorrow,

boweth toward the earth.

My roots are weak,

yet they labour to uphold my trunk,

and my trunk laboureth in turn

to sustain my feeble branches.

Among all,

I am set apart—

a stranger,

and barren.

Even if it were within my power,

I would withhold water

from my roots.

I would not awaken

my dry trunk

from the sleep of death,

nor would I suffer

the buds of my being

to rise.

I would cast away fruitfulness

and remain unfruitful forever.

I am the one set apart,

the thread woven otherwise.

The light of the sun

causeth my sisters to dance,

but I flee from the light.

I flee from life.

For there is no life within me,

neither shall there ever be.