The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  From this debate between Age and Youth, Kahlil Gibran’s approaches to life, death, and religion are revealed. He does not propose that all persons abandon urbanity for life on the mountainside, but he endeavours to focus attention upon a simple formula for better life, and urges the people to unchain themselves from the rattling shackles of society and avail themselves, to as great a degree as possible, of the natural freedom and tranquility of rural existence. The field which Gibran describes is symbolic of the life of rich wholesomeness accruing to the heart of the person who abides close by the earth.

  By reason of the nebulous, untranslatable character of the Arabic language, this play-poem is variously called The Procession and The Cortège. Despite Gibran’s sadness as reflected herein, the translator determined that The Procession was best suited, as a title, to the author’s intention. This same indefiniteness, inherent in the Arabic, required occasional departure from strict translation in order that Gibran’s mighty message be captured intact.

  Age: True, good deed by man is ever done,

  But when man is gone, evil does not

  Perish with him. Like turning wheels

  We are controlled by the hands of

  Time where e’er man resides. Say not

  “This man is famed and learned, or

  Master of knowledge from the angels

  Sent,” for in the city the best of

  Man is but one of a flock, led by

  The shepherd in strong voice. And he

  Who follows not the command must soon

  Stand before his killers.

  Youth: There is no shepherd over man in

  The beautiful field, nor sheep to

  Graze nor hearts to bleed. Winter

  Departs with her garment and Spring

  Must come, but only by God’s great

  Command. Your people are born as

  Slaves, and by your tyrants their

  Souls are torn. Where e’er goes the

  Leader, so go they, and woe unto

  Him who would refuse!

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  The song of the flute is more sublime

  Than all glory of kings in all of time.

  Age: Life amid the throngs is but brief

  And drug-laden slumber, mixed with

  Mad dreams and spectres and fears.

  The secret of the heart is encased

  In sorrow, and only in sorrow is

  Found our joy, while happiness serves

  But to conceal the deep mystery of life,

  And if sorrow I were to abandon for

  The calm of the field, naught but

  Emptiness would be my lot.

  Youth: The joy of one is the sorrow of the

  Other, and there is no sorrow in the

  Beautiful field, or sadness brought

  By scornful deed. The frolicsome

  Breeze brings joy to sad hearts, and

  Your sorrow of heart is but a dream of

  Fancy, passing swiftly, like the quick

  Brook. Your sorrow would in the field

  Vanish, as the autumn leaf is sped off

  On the forehead of the brook, and your

  Heart would be calm, as the broad lake

  Is calm under the great lights of God.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  Heaven’s melody alone will ever remain,

  All of earth’s objects are but vain.

  Age: Few are those content with life and far

  From care. The river of the field is

  But a carrier of emptiness; the river

  Of human life has been diverted into old

  Cups of knowledge and presented to man

  Who drinks of life’s richness but heeds

  Not its warnings. He is joyous when the

  Cups are of happiness, but he grumbles

  When he prays to God and asks for the

  Wealth he scarce merits. And when he

  Attains his goal of iron riches his

  Dreams of fear enslave him forever.

  This world is but a wine shop whose

  Owner is Time, and the drunkards

  Demand much for little offering.

  Youth: There is no wine in the beautiful

  Field, for glorious intoxication of

  The soul is the reward of all who

  Seek it in the bosom of Nature. The

  Cloud which shelters the moon must

  Be pierced with ardour if one needs

  Behold the moon’s light. The people

  Of the city abuse the wine of Time,

  For they think upon it as a temple,

  And they drink of it with ease and

  With unthinking, and they flee,

  Scurrying into old age with deep

  But unknowing sorrow.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  The song of God must ever stay,

  All other things must pass away.

  Age: Religion to man is like your field,

  For it is planted with hope and

  Tilled by the faithful; or it is

  Tended by the shivering ignorant,

  Fearing the fire of hell; or it is

  Sowed by the strong in wealth of

  Empty gold who look upon religion

  As a kind of barter, ever seeking

  Profit in earthly reward. But

  Their hearts are lost despite

  Their throbbing, and the product

  Of their spiritual farming is but

  The unwanted weed of the valley.

  Youth: There is no religion in the Godly

  And beautiful field, nor any heretic

  Nor color nor creed, for when the

  Nightingale sings, all is beauty and

  Joy and religion, and the spirit is

  Soothed and the reward is peace.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  Prayer is my music, love is my string;

  The moaning flute will surely sound

  The misery of those in the city bound.

  Age: What of justice and earthly rule

  That makes us laugh and weep? For the

  Criminal who is weak and poor the

  Narrow cell or death awaits; but

  Honour and glory await the rich who

  Conceal their crimes behind their

  Gold and silver and inherited glory.

  Youth: All is justice in Nature’s field; to

  None does Nature grant neglect or

  Favor. The trees are grown in each

  Other’s way, but when the breeze is

  Scampering all will sway. Justice in

  The field is like the snow, for it

  Blankets all things, and when the sun

  Appears, all things must emerge in

  Strength and in beauty and in fragrance.

  Give me the flute and let me sing

  For the song of God is everything;

  The truth of the flute will e’er remain,

  While crimes and men are but disdain.

  Age: The people of the city are enmeshed

  In the web of the tyrant who rages

  In fury when he grows old. In the

  Lion’s den there is a scent, and be

  The lion there or not, the fox will

  Not approach. The starling is timid

  When he soars the infinite, but the

  Eagle is proud, even when he dies.

  The strength of the spirit alone is

  The power of powers, and must in time

  Crumble to powder all things opposing

  It. Do not condemn, but pity the

  Faithless and their weakness and their

  Ignorance and their nothingness.

  Youth: The field sees not the weak nor the

  Strong, for to Nature, all are one


  And all are strong. When the lion

  Roars, the field does not say, “He is

  A terrible beast … let us flee!” Man’s

  Shadow passes in speed through his

  Brief and sorrowful visit to earth,

  And rests in the vast firmament of

  Thought, which is heaven’s field; and

  Like leaves of autumn that fall to the

  Heart of earth, all must again appear in

  The great springtime of colourful youth,

  Beautiful in their re-birth. And the leaf

  Of the tree will thrive in hearty life

  After man’s objects of substance perish

  Into vapour and forgottenness.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  For strength of soul my song will bring;

  The heavenly flute will long be cherished

  But man and his greed will soon be perished.

  Age: Man is weak by his own hand, for he

  Has refashioned God’s law into his own

  Confining manner of life, chaining

  Himself with the coarse irons of the

  Rules of society which he desired; and

  He is steadfast in refusing to be aware

  Of the great tragedy he has cast upon

  Himself and his children and their sons.

  Man has erected on this earth a prison

  Of quarrels from which he cannot now

  Escape, and misery is his voluntary lot.

  Youth: To Nature all are alive and all are

  Free. The earthly glory of man is an

  Empty dream, vanishing with the bubbles

  In the rocky stream. When the almond

  Tree spreads her blossoms on the small

  Plants growing below, she does not say,

  “How rich am I! How poor are they!”

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  The melody of God will never wane,

  While all on earth is naught but vain.

  Age: The kindness of the people is but an

  Empty shell containing no gem or

  Precious pearl. With two hearts do

  People live; a small one of deep

  Softness, the other of steel. And

  Kindness is too often a shield,

  And generosity too often a sword.

  Youth: The field has but one great heart;

  The willow lives by the oak, and

  Has no fear of its strength or

  Its size. And the peacock’s garb

  Is magnificent to behold, but the

  Peacock knows not whether it be a

  Thing of beauty or of ugliness.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  For music is the hymn of the meek,

  Mightier than the strong and the weak.

  Age: The people of the city feign great

  Wisdom and knowledge, but their

  Fancy remains false forever, for

  They are but experts of imitation.

  It gives them pride to calculate

  That a barter will bring no loss

  Or gain. The idiot imagines himself

  A king and no power can alter his

  Great thoughts and dreams. The

  Proud fool mistakes his mirror for

  The sky, and his shadow for a

  Moon that gleams high from the

  Heavens.

  Youth: No clever or handsome inhabit

  The field, for Nature is not in

  Need of beauty or sweetness. The

  Running stream is sweet nectar,

  And as it broadens and stills,

  It reflects only the truth of

  Its neighbours and self.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  The moaning flute is more divine

  Than the golden cup of deep, red wine.

  Age: The kind of love for which man

  Struggles and dies is like the

  Bush that bears no fruit. Only

  The wholesome love, like the

  Enormous sorrow of soul, will

  Enliven and lift the heart into

  Understanding. When abused, it

  Is the purveyor of misery and the

  Omen of danger and the dark cloud

  Of blackness. If humanity were to

  Lead love’s cavalcade to a bed of

  Faithless motive, then love there

  Would decline to abide. Love is a

  Beautiful bird, begging capture,

  But refusing injury.

  Youth: The field fights not to acquire

  The throne of love, for love and

  Beauty abide forever and in peace

  And in bounty in the field. Love,

  When sought out, is an ailment

  Between the flesh and the bone,

  And only when youth has passed

  Does the pain bring rich and

  Sorrowful knowledge.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  For song is the arm of love

  Descending in beauty from God above.

  Age: The youth who is visited by a great

  Love through the truth of the light

  Of heaven, and in whom thirst and

  Hunger rage to protect that love,

  Is the true child of God. And yet

  The people say, “He is insane! He

  Profits not from love, and the one

  He loves is far from beauty, and

  His pain and woe avail him naught!”

  Pity those ignorants! Their spirits

  Were dead before they were born on

  Labour’s bed!

  Youth: No sentry or blamer abides in the

  Field, and no secret is withheld

  By Nature. The gazelle capers in

  Merriment at eventide and the

  Eagle never utters smile or frown,

  But all things in the field are

  Heard and known and seen.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  For music is the heart’s great bliss,

  From heaven a joy, from God a kiss.

  Age: We forget the greatness of the

  Invader but remember e’er his rage

  And madness. From the heart of

  Alexander lust grew strong, and

  Through the soul of Kais ignorance

  Was defeated. The triumph of

  Alexander was naught but defeat;

  The torture of Kais was triumph

  And glory. Through the spirit,

  Not the body, love must be shown,

  As it is to enliven, not to deaden,

  That the wine is pressed.

  Youth: The memories of the lover hover

  In the field, but the deeds of

  A tyrant ne’er bring a thought,

  For his crime is recorded in

  History’s book. For love, all of

  Existence is an eternal shrine.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  Forget the cruelty of the strong,

  To Nature alone all things belong;

  The lilies were made as cups for dew

  Not for blood or potions new.

  Age: Happiness on earth is but a fleet,

  Passing ghost, which man craves

  At any cost in gold or time. And

  When the phantom becomes the

  Reality, man soon wearies of it.

  The river runs like the racing

  Stallion, swirling on the plain,

  Turning it to dust. Man endeavours

  That his body provide the things

  Prohibited; and when gotten, the

  Desire then subsides. When you
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  Behold a man turning aside from

  Things forbidden that bring

  Abysmal crime to self, look

  Upon him with eyes of love, for

  He is a preserver of God in him.

  Youth: Empty and barren of hope and care

  Is the beautiful field; it gives

  No heed to desire, and craves not

  For part of any thing, for God

  Almighty has provided her with all.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  Singing is love and hope and desire,

  The moaning flute is the light and fire.

  Age: The purpose of the spirit in the

  Heart is concealed, and by outer

  Appearance cannot be judged. One

  Often says, “When the soul has

  Reached perfection, then from

  Life it is released, for if the

  Soul were fruit, then when ripe

  It would fall from the tree by

  The strength of God’s wind.” And

  Another adds, “When the body rests

  In death the soul will depart it,

  As the shadow on the lake vanishes

  As the searing heat dries its bed.”

  But the spirit is not born to

  Perish, but ever will thrive and

  Flourish. For even as the north

  Wind blows and folds the flower

  To earth, so comes the south wind

  To restore its beauty.

  Youth: The field distinguishes not the

  Body from the soul. The sea and

  The fog and the dew and the mist

  Are all but one, whether clouded

  Or clear.

  Give me the flute and let me sing,

  And through my soul let music ring;

  For song is all of body and soul,

  From the rich depth of the golden bowl.

  Age: The body is the womb for the

  Soul’s tranquility, and there it

  Rests until light is born. The

  Soul is an embryo in the body of

  Man, and the day of death is the

  Day of awakening, for it is the

  Great era of labour and the rich

  Hour of creation. But cruelty’s

  Barrenness accompanies man, and

  Intrudes upon the fertility of

  The soul’s mind. How many flowers

  Possess no fragrance from the day

  Of their birth! How many clouds

  Gather in the sky, barren of rain,

  Dropping no pearls!

  Youth: No soul is barren in the good