This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

In the soul’s dark night
I knew the taste of tears unshed,
The hopeless seeming fight,
Pain for my daily bread.

The hammer blows of God
Sculptured from the living flesh,
As from a lifeless clod,
The new man made afresh.

The only one escape
Was such my mind could not come by,
Could not even shape—
To curse God and die.

Yet through it all I knew
The mind flagellant and a fake,
Clinging to the untrue.
Self-tortured for desire’s sake.

The fake, the evil ghost, the impostor me,
The camel straining at the needle’s eye,
Craving and he who craves, must cease to be—
Simply give up and be content to die,
Since there’s no other way, better cut quick,
Slay and have done, than make an endless tale,
Flogging then coddling, caring for when sick.
Then sentencing to hunger when he’s hale.

Ruthless Compassion! Most compassionate
When most unmoved by anguish of the cry
Of that false self who stands within the gate
That shutters out the radiance of the sky.