the grass slope for the feet of those who have climbed.
He is fresh water;
he is the spring.
He is the great palm, the beautiful stream, the cool leaves, and all of these together.
Â
It will speak of that seduction that is in manâs eyes and it will tell the Earth the great secret, the beastsâ great hope:
Do you know why we are afraid, Earth?
Do you know why we are wild,
why we listen to the wind and sniff the dust?
Itâs because we feel ourselves carried by you, crossing the sky at a horrible speed.
And, he who has come,
weâve read in his eyes that he doesnât see your life, Earth.
Weâve read in his eyes tranquillity and peace, and thatâs why we love him.
And then, from there, the play will make two leaps that will carry it to the end.
Â
First, a long monologue from the Sardinian. The nine shepherds, who were the Sea, the Mountain, the River, the Tree, the Wind, the Grass, the Rain, the Cold, the Beast, are still and silent. They hold one anotherâs hands and they form a horseshoe around the Sardinian.
The Sardinian gives us the final word on Earthâs anxiety and why it has questioned so hungrily. It knows, it recognizes the danger that threatens it. If man becomes the master of beasts, it, the Earth, is lost:
I see him, already, there ahead of the great herd.
He will walk along at his easy pace and behind him, there you will all be.
And then, he will be the master.
He will command the forests.
He will make you camp out in the mountains,
He will make you drink the rivers.
He will make the sea advance or retreat, by merely moving the flat of his hand.
A moment of silence, then the Earth begins to look around:
Â
The great reflection of all images.
Â
And as it reads the hidden writing, its voice reassures and prophesies.
Â
The great barrier!
It will always be between beast and man, that high barrier black as night, high as the sun.
And were all the pity piled up in your skin, you would never be able to make it run from you or make the beasts drink from it.
You will never jump the barrier and enter on equal footing the great forest of the beastâs reflections.
You will not look at the same reflections.
You will see the trees from the other side, and the others, they will see another side of the trees.
And all that, because I am going to be harsh with you, harsh and spiteful, and I am going to think about my spitefulness.
You will be the master of gold and stones, but without understanding the stones, you will massacre them with your trowel and your pick.
And as for gold, made of light, you will guard it in the dark stench of your mouth.
You will make yourself aids with iron, bolts and hinges.
But you will be obliged to offer your head and your heart to all your machines and you will become as evil as the iron and the jaws of the hinge.
Then, the Earth is delighted and begins to laugh from all its volcanoes.
At that moment that the drama takes its second leap and the Sardinian ends with a simple gesture. He sheds his Earth character, and he again becomes what he is: a man. More than that: a shepherd. More than that: a master of beasts, one of those masters that the earth dreads. And that is the truth.
He takes three steps, he disengages himself from the semi-circle of the elements. Slowly, he kneels; he lies down belly to the earth; he embraces the earth with his outspread arms. We hear him say:
Â
Earth!
Earth!
We are here, itâs us, the masters of beasts!
We are here, itâs us, the first men!
There are some among us who have kept their hearts pure.
We are here.
Do you feel our weight?
Do you feel how we weigh more than the others?
They are here, those men who see the two sides of the tree and the inside of the stone, those who walk in the thinking of the beast as in the wide meadows of Dévoluy above the well-loved grasses.
They are here, those who have leapt the barrier!
Â
He remains for a brief
He is fresh water;
he is the spring.
He is the great palm, the beautiful stream, the cool leaves, and all of these together.
Â
It will speak of that seduction that is in manâs eyes and it will tell the Earth the great secret, the beastsâ great hope:
Do you know why we are afraid, Earth?
Do you know why we are wild,
why we listen to the wind and sniff the dust?
Itâs because we feel ourselves carried by you, crossing the sky at a horrible speed.
And, he who has come,
weâve read in his eyes that he doesnât see your life, Earth.
Weâve read in his eyes tranquillity and peace, and thatâs why we love him.
And then, from there, the play will make two leaps that will carry it to the end.
Â
First, a long monologue from the Sardinian. The nine shepherds, who were the Sea, the Mountain, the River, the Tree, the Wind, the Grass, the Rain, the Cold, the Beast, are still and silent. They hold one anotherâs hands and they form a horseshoe around the Sardinian.
The Sardinian gives us the final word on Earthâs anxiety and why it has questioned so hungrily. It knows, it recognizes the danger that threatens it. If man becomes the master of beasts, it, the Earth, is lost:
I see him, already, there ahead of the great herd.
He will walk along at his easy pace and behind him, there you will all be.
And then, he will be the master.
He will command the forests.
He will make you camp out in the mountains,
He will make you drink the rivers.
He will make the sea advance or retreat, by merely moving the flat of his hand.
A moment of silence, then the Earth begins to look around:
Â
The great reflection of all images.
Â
And as it reads the hidden writing, its voice reassures and prophesies.
Â
The great barrier!
It will always be between beast and man, that high barrier black as night, high as the sun.
And were all the pity piled up in your skin, you would never be able to make it run from you or make the beasts drink from it.
You will never jump the barrier and enter on equal footing the great forest of the beastâs reflections.
You will not look at the same reflections.
You will see the trees from the other side, and the others, they will see another side of the trees.
And all that, because I am going to be harsh with you, harsh and spiteful, and I am going to think about my spitefulness.
You will be the master of gold and stones, but without understanding the stones, you will massacre them with your trowel and your pick.
And as for gold, made of light, you will guard it in the dark stench of your mouth.
You will make yourself aids with iron, bolts and hinges.
But you will be obliged to offer your head and your heart to all your machines and you will become as evil as the iron and the jaws of the hinge.
Then, the Earth is delighted and begins to laugh from all its volcanoes.
At that moment that the drama takes its second leap and the Sardinian ends with a simple gesture. He sheds his Earth character, and he again becomes what he is: a man. More than that: a shepherd. More than that: a master of beasts, one of those masters that the earth dreads. And that is the truth.
He takes three steps, he disengages himself from the semi-circle of the elements. Slowly, he kneels; he lies down belly to the earth; he embraces the earth with his outspread arms. We hear him say:
Â
Earth!
Earth!
We are here, itâs us, the masters of beasts!
We are here, itâs us, the first men!
There are some among us who have kept their hearts pure.
We are here.
Do you feel our weight?
Do you feel how we weigh more than the others?
They are here, those men who see the two sides of the tree and the inside of the stone, those who walk in the thinking of the beast as in the wide meadows of Dévoluy above the well-loved grasses.
They are here, those who have leapt the barrier!
Â
He remains for a brief
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