The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  John’s parents were informed of his imprisonment and the confiscation of the oxen. His old mother came to the Monastery leaning heavily over her walking stick and she prostrated herself before the head priest, kissing his feet and begging him for mercy upon her only son. The head priest raised his head reverently toward heaven and said, “We will forgive your son for his madness, but St. Elija will not forgive any who trespass upon his land.” After gazing at him with tearful eyes, the old lady took a silver locket from her neck and handed it to the head priest, saying, “This is my most precious possession, given to me as a wedding gift by my mother.… Will you accept it as atonement for my son’s sin?”

  The head priest took the locket and placed it in his pocket, whereupon he looked at John’s ancient mother who was kissing his hands and expressing to him her thanks and gratitude, and he said, “Woe to this sinful age! You twist the saying of the Good Book and cause the children to eat the sour, and the parents’ teeth sit on edge; go now, good woman, and pray to God for your mad son and ask Him to restore his mind.”

  John left the prison, and walked quietly by the side of his mother, driving the oxen before him. When they reached their wretched hovel, he led the animals into their mangers and sat silently by the window, meditating the sunset. In a few moments he heard his father whispering to his mother, saying, “Sara, many times have I told you that John was mad, and you disbelieved. Now you will agree, after what you have seen, for the head priest has spoken to you today the very words I spoke to you in past years.” John continued looking toward the distant horizon, watching the sun descend.

  Easter arrived, and at that time the construction of a new church in the town of Bsherri had just been completed. This magnificent place of worship was like a prince’s palace standing amidst the huts of poor subjects. The people were scurrying through the many preparations to receive a prelate who was assigned to officiate at the religious ceremonies inaugurating the new temple. The multitudes stood in rows over the roads waiting for His Grace’s arrival. The chanting of the priests in unison with cymbal sounds and the hymns of the throngs filled the sky.

  The prelate finally arrived, riding a magnificent horse harnessed with a gold-studded saddle, and as he dismounted, the priests and political leaders met him with the most beautiful of welcoming speeches. He was escorted to the new altar, where he clothed himself in ecclesiastical raiment, decorated with gold threads and encrusted with sparkling gems; he wore the golden crown, and walked in a procession around the altar, carrying his jewelled staff. He was followed by the priests and the carriers of tapers and incense burners.

  At that hour, John stood amongst the fellahin at the portico, contemplating the scene with bitter sighs and sorrowful eyes, for it pained him to observe the expensive robes, and precious crown, and staff, and vases and other objects of needless extravagance, while the poor fellahin who came from the surrounding villages to celebrate the occasion were suffering the gnawing pangs of poverty. Their tattered swaddles and sorrowful faces bespoke their miserable plight.

  The rich dignitaries, decorated with badges and ribbons, stood aloof praying loudly, while the suffering villagers, in the rear of the scene, beat their bosoms in sincere prayer that came from the depths of their broken hearts.

  The authority of those dignitaries and leaders was like the ever-green leaves of the poplar trees, and the life of those fellahin was like a boat whose pilot had met his destiny and whose rudder had been lost and whose sails had been torn by the strong wind and left at the mercy of the furious depths and the raging tempest.

  Tyranny and blind submission … which one of these gave birth to the other? Is tyranny a strong tree that grows not in the low earth, or is it submission, which is like a deserted field where naught but thorns can grow? Such thoughts and contemplations preyed on John’s mind while the ceremonies were taking place; he braced his arms about his chest for fear his bosom would burst with agony over the people’s plight in this tragedy of opposites.

  He gazed upon the withering creatures of severe humanity, whose hearts were dry and whose seeds were now seeking shelter in the bosom of the earth, as destitute pilgrims seek rebirth in a new realm.

  When the pageantry came to an end and the multitude was preparing to disperse, John felt that a compelling power was urging him to speak in behalf of the oppressed poor. He proceeded to an extreme end of the square, raised his hands toward the sky, and as the throngs gathered about, he opened his lips and said, “O Jesus, Who art sitting in the heart of the circle of light, give heed! Look upon this earth from behind the blue dome and see how the thorns have choked the flowers which Thy truth hast planted.

  “Oh Good Shepherd, the wolves have preyed upon the weak lamb which Thou hast carried in Thy arms. Thy pure blood has been drawn into the depths of the earth which Thy feet have made sacred. This good earth has been made by Thine enemies into an arena where the strong crushes the weak. The cry of the miserable and the lamentation of the helpless can no longer be heard by those sitting upon the thrones, preaching Thy word. The lambs which Thou hast sent to this earth are now wolves who eat the one which Thou hast carried and blessed.

  “The word of light which sprang forth from Thy heart has vanished from the scripture and is replaced with an empty and terrible uproar that frightens the spirit.

  “Oh Jesus, they have built these churches for the sake of their own glory, and embellished them with silk and melted gold.… They left the bodies of Thy chosen poor wrapped in tattered raiment in the cold night.… They filled the sky with the smoke of burning candles and incense and left the bodies of Thy faithful worshippers empty of bread.… They raised their voices with hymns of praise, but deafened themselves to the cry and moan of the widows and orphans.

  “Come again, Oh Living Jesus, and drive the vendors of Thy faith from Thy sacred temple, for they have turned it into a dark cave where vipers of hypocrisy and falsehood crawl and abound.”

  John’s words, strong and sincere, brought murmurs of approval, and the approach of the dignitaries quelled him not. With added courage, strengthened by memories of his earlier experience, he continued, “Come, Oh Jesus, and render accounts with those Caesars who usurped from the weak what is the weak’s and from God what is God’s. The grapevine which Thou hast planted with Thy right hand has been eaten by worms of greed and its bunches have been trampled down. Thy sons of peace are dividing amongst themselves and fighting one with another, leaving poor souls as victims in the wintry field. Before Thy altar, they raise their voices with prayers, saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’ Will our Father in heaven be glorified when His name is uttered by empty hearts and sinful lips and false tongues? Will peace be on earth while the sons of misery are slaving in the fields to feed the strong and fill the stomachs of the tyrants? Will ever peace come and save them from the clutches of destitution?

  “What is peace? Is it in the eyes of those infants, nursing upon the dry breasts of their hungry mothers in cold huts? Or is it in the wretched hovels of the hungry who sleep upon hard beds and crave for one bite of the food which the priests and monks feed to their fat pigs?

  “What is joy, Oh Beautiful Jesus? Is it manifest when the Emir buys the strong arms of men and the honour of women for threats of death or for a few pieces of silver? Or is it found in submission, and slaving of body and spirit to those who dazzle our eyes with their glittering badges and golden diadems? Upon each complaint to Thy peace makers, they reward us with their soldiers, armed with swords and spears to step upon our women and children and steal our blood.

  “Oh Jesus, full of love and mercy, stretch forth Thy strong arms and protect us from those thieves or send welcome Death to deliver us and lead us to the graves where we can rest peacefully under the watchful care of Thy Cross; there we shall wait for Thy return. Oh Mighty Jesus, this life is naught but a dark cell of enslavement.… It is a playing ground of horrible ghosts, and it is a pit alive with spectres of death. Our days
are but sharp words concealed under the ragged quilts of our beds in the fearful darkness of the night. At dawn, these weapons rise above our heads as demons, pointing out to us our whip-driven slavery in the fields.

  “Oh Jesus, have mercy upon the oppressed poor who came today to commemorate Thy Resurrection.… Pity them, for they are miserable and weak.”

  John’s talk appealed to one group and displeased another. “He is telling the truth, and speaking in our behalf before heaven,” one remarked. And another one said, “He is bewitched, for he speaks in the name of an evil spirit.” And a third commented, “We have never heard such infamous talk, not even from our fathers! We must bring it to an end!” And a fourth one said, whispering into the next man’s ears, “I felt a new spirit in me when I heard him talking.” The next man added, “But the priests know our needs more so than he does; it is a sin to doubt them.” As the voices grew from every direction like the roar of the sea, one of the priests approached, placed John in restraint and turned him immediately to the law, whereupon he was taken to the Governor’s palace for trial.

  Upon his interrogation, John uttered not a single word, for he knew that the Nazarene resorted to silence before His persecutors. The governor ordered John to be placed in a prison, where he slept peacefully and heart-cleansed that night, leaning his head on the rock wall of the dungeon.

  The next day John’s father came and testified before the Governor that his son was mad, and added, sadly, “Many times have I heard him talking to himself and speaking of many strange things that none could see or understand. Many times did he sit talking in the silence of the night, using vague words. I heard him calling the ghosts with a voice like that of a sorcerer. You may ask the neighbors who talked to him and found beyond doubt that he was insane. He never answered when one spoke to him, and when he spoke, he uttered cryptic words and phrases unknown to the listener and out of the subject. His mother knows him well. Many times she saw him gazing at the distant horizon with glazed eyes and speaking with passion, like a small child, about the brooks and the flowers and the stars. Ask the monks whose teachings he ridiculed and criticized during their sacred Lent. He is insane, Your Excellency, but he is very kind to me and to his mother; he does much to help us in our old age, and he works with diligence to keep us fed and warm and alive. Pity him, and have mercy on us.”

  The Governor released John, and the news of his madness spread throughout the village. And when the people spoke of John they mentioned his name with humour and ridicule, and the maidens looked upon him with sorrowful eyes and said, “Heaven has its strange purpose in man.… God united beauty and insanity in this youth, and joined the kind brightness of his eyes with the darkness of his unseen self.”

  In the midst of God’s fields and prairies, and by the side of the knolls, carpeted with green grass and beautiful flowers, the ghost of John, alone and restless, watches the oxen grazing peacefully, undisturbed by man’s hardships. With tearful eyes he looks toward the scattered villages on both sides of the valley and repeats with deep sighs, “You are numerous and I am alone; the wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night, but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes, and the sun reveals the crime to all.”

  * A rich abbey in North Lebanon with vast lands, occupied by scores of monks called Alepoans. (Editor’s note.)

  WE AND YOU

  WE ARE the sons of Sorrow, and you are the

  Sons of Joy. We are the sons of Sorrow,

  And Sorrow is the shadow of a God who

  Lives not in the domain of evil hearts.

  We are sorrowful spirits, and Sorrow is

  Too great to exist in small hearts.

  When you laugh, we cry and lament; and he

  Who is seared and cleansed once with his

  Own tears will remain pure forevermore.

  You understand us not, but we offer our

  Sympathy to you. You are racing with the

  Current of the River of Life, and you

  Do not look upon us; but we are sitting by

  The coast, watching you and hearing your

  Strange voices.

  You do not comprehend our cry, for the

  Clamour of the days is crowding your ears,

  Blocked with the hard substance of your

  Years of indifference to truth; but we hear

  Your songs, for the whispering of the night

  Has opened our inner hearts. We see you

  Standing under the pointing finger of light,

  But you cannot see us, for we are tarrying

  In the enlightening darkness.

  We are the sons of Sorrow; we are the poets

  And the prophets and the musicians. We weave

  Raiment for the goddess from the threads of

  Our hearts, and we fill the hands of the

  Angels with the seeds of our inner selves.

  You are the sons of the pursuit of earthly

  Gaiety. You place your hearts in the hands

  Of Emptiness, for the hand’s touch to

  Emptiness is smooth and inviting.

  You reside in the house of Ignorance, for

  In his house there is no mirror in which to

  View your souls.

  We sigh, and from our sighs arise the

  Whispering of flowers and the rustling of

  Leaves and the murmur of rivulets.

  When you ridicule us your taunts mingle

  With the crushing of the skulls and the

  Rattling of shackles and the wailing of the

  Abyss. When we cry, our tears fall into the

  Heart of Life, as dew drops fall from the

  Eyes of Night into the heart of Dawn; and

  When you laugh, your mocking laughter pours

  Down like the viper’s venom into a wound.

  We cry, and sympathize with the miserable

  Wanderer and distressed widow; but you rejoice

  And smile at the sight of resplendent gold.

  We cry, for we listen to the moaning of the

  Poor and the grieving of the oppressed weak;

  But you laugh, for you hear naught but the

  Happy sound of the wine goblets.

  We cry, for our spirits are at the moment

  Separated from God; but you laugh, for your

  Bodies cling with unconcern to the earth.

  We are the sons of Sorrow, and you are the

  Sons of Joy.… Let us measure the outcome of

  Our sorrow against the deeds of your joy

  Before the face of the Sun.…

  You have built the Pyramids upon the hearts

  Of slaves, but the Pyramids stand now upon

  The sand, commemorating to the Ages our

  Immortality and your evanescence.

  You have built Babylon upon the bones of the

  Weak, and erected the palaces of Nineveh upon

  The graves of the miserable. Babylon is now but

  The footprint of the camel upon the moving sand

  Of the desert, and its history is repeated

  To the nations who bless us and curse you.

  We have carved Ishtar from solid marble,

  And made it to quiver in its solidity and

  Speak through its muteness.

  We have composed and played the soothing

  Song of Nahawand upon the strings, and caused

  The Beloved’s spirit to come hovering in the

  Firmament near to us; we have praised the

  Supreme Being with words and deeds; the words

  Became as the words of God, and the deeds

  Became overwhelming love of the angels.

  You are following Amusement, whose sharp claws

  Have torn thousands of martyrs in the arenas

  Of Rome and Antioch.… But we are following

  Silence, whose careful fingers have woven the

  Iliad and the Book of Job and the Lamentations
/>   Of Jeremiah.

  You lie down with Lust, whose tempest has

  Swept one thousand processions of the soul of

  Woman away and into the pit of shame and

  Horror.… But we embrace Solitude, in whose

  Shadow the beauties of Hamlet and Dante arose.

  You curry for the favor of Greed, and the sharp

  Swords of Greed have shed one thousand rivers

  Of blood.… But we seek company with Truth,

  And the hands of Truth have brought down

  Knowledge from the Great Heart of the Circle

  Of Light.

  We are the sons of Sorrow, and you are the

  Sons of Joy; and between our sorrow and your

  Joy there is a rough and narrow path which

  Your spirited horses cannot travel, and upon

  Which your magnificent carriages cannot pass.

  We pity your smallness as you hate our

  Greatness; and between our pity and your

  Hatred, Time halts bewildered. We come to

  You as friends, but you attack us as enemies;

  And between our friendship and your enmity,

  There is a deep ravine flowing with tears

  And blood.

  We build palaces for you, and you dig graves

  For us; and between the beauty of the palace

  And the obscurity of the grave, Humanity

  Walks as a sentry with iron weapons.

  We spread your path with roses, and you cover

  Our beds with thorns; and between the roses

  And the thorns, Truth slumbers fitfully.

  Since the beginning of the world you have

  Fought against our gentle power with your

  Coarse weakness; and when you triumph over