A beautiful stream flows through the Hall of Reflections.
It was originally crafted by Goethe to show his understanding of
the Islamic concept of life.
The stream is sound asleep in the cradle of the
clouds until it opens its eye in the lap of mountains. Linked
with itself, unlinked with all, it merrily flows through the meadow,
its graceful motion striking music from the pebbles. It is headed
towards the boundless ocean.
Spring has fashioned a fairyland along the track
of the stream. Roses attempt to attract it while the rose-bud
laughs coquettishly, but unmindful of these green-robed beauties,
the stream cleaves the desert and rends the breast of hills and
valleys in its onward march towards the boundless ocean.
Stricken with drought, a hundred feeble brooks from
woods, meadows, valleys and gardens and villas cry for help. The
stream, having evaded all charms of the earth-rooted flowers,
opens its breast to the winds of the East and the West, and clasps
its weak and wailing fellow-travelers.
The stream is now a surging river surpassing dam
dykes, narrow gorges of valleys, hills and glen. Made one like
a torrent – passionate, fierce, sharp, restless and heart-inflaming
– it arrives each time at the new and goes beyond the old.
Linked with itself, unlinked with all, it merrily flows towards
the boundless ocean.