* * *
In that hour the soul sees for herself the natural law, and for that century she imprisons herself behind the law of man; and she is shackled with irons of oppression.
* * *
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs Of Solomon, and that century was the blind power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
* * *
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
* * *
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
* * *
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a century filled with greed and usurpation.
* * *
It is at that hour when the heart is purified by flaming sorrow and illuminated by the torch of love.
* * *
And in that century, desires for truth are buried in the bosom of the earth.
* * *
That hour is the root which must flourish.
* * *
That hour of meditation, the hour of prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
* * *
And that century is a life of Nero spent on self-investment taken solely from earthly substance.
* * *
This is life.
* * *
Portrayed on the stage for ages; recorded earthly for centuries; lived in strangeness for years; sung as a hymn for days; exalted but for an hour, but the hour is treasured by eternity as a jewel
The City Of The Dead
Yesterday I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded into the field until I reached a knoll upon which Nature had spread her comely garments. Now I could breathe.
* * *
I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificent mosques and stately residences veiled by the smoke of the shops.
* * *
I commenced analyzing man’s mission, but could conclude only that most of his life was identified with struggle and hardship. Then I tried not to ponder over what the sons of Adam had done, and centred my eyes on the field which is the throne of God’s glory. In one secluded corner of the field I observed a burying ground surrounded by poplar trees.
* * *
There, between the city of the dead and the city of the living, I meditated. I thought of the eternal silence in the first and the endless sorrow in the second.
* * *
In the city of the living I found hope and despair; love and hatred, joy and sorrow, wealth and poverty, faith and infidelity.
* * *
In the city of the dead there is buried earth in earth that Nature converts, in the night’s silence, into vegetation, and then into animal, and then into man. As my mind wandered in this fashion, I saw a procession moving slowly and reverently, accompanied by pieces of music that filled the sky with sad melody. It was an elaborate funeral. The dead was followed by the living who wept and lamented his going. As the cortege reached the place of interment the priests commenced praying and burning incense, and musicians blowing and plucking their instruments, mourning the departed. Then the leaders came forward one after the other and recited their eulogies with fine choice of words.
* * *
At last the multitude departed, leaving the dead resting in a most spacious and beautiful vault, expertly designed in stone and iron, and surrounded by the most expensively-entwined wreaths of flowers.
* * *
The farewell-bidders returned to the city and I remained, watching them from a distance and speaking softly to myself while the sun was descending to the horizon and Nature was making her many preparations for slumber.
* * *
Then I saw two men labouring under the weight of a wooden casket, and behind them a shabby-appearing woman carrying an infant on her arms. Following last was a dog who, with heartbreaking eyes, stared first at the woman and then at the casket.
* * *
It was a poor funeral. This guest of Death left to cold society a miserable wife and an infant to share her sorrows and a faithful dog whose heart knew of his companion’s departure.
* * *
As they reached the burial place they deposited the casket into a ditch away from the tended shrubs and marble stones, and retreated after a few simple words to God. The dog made one last turn to look at his friend’s grave as the small group disappeared behind the trees.
* * *
I looked at the city of the living and said to myself, “That place belongs to the few.” Then I looked upon the trim city of the dead and said, “That place, too, belongs to the few. Oh Lord, where is the haven of all the people?”
* * *
As I said this, I looked toward the clouds, mingled with the sun’s longest and most beautiful golden rays. And I heard a voice within me saying, “Over there!”
The Widow And Her Son
Night fell over North Lebanon and snow was covering the villages surrounded by the Kadeesha Valley, giving the fields and prairies the appearance of a great sheet of parchment upon which the furious Nature was recording her many deeds. Men came home from the streets while silence engulfed the night.
* * *
In a lone house near those villages lived a woman who sat by her fireside spinning wool, and at her side was her only child, staring now at the fire and then at his mother.
* * *
A terrible roar of thunder shook the house and the little boy shook with fright. He threw his arms about his mother, seeking protection from Nature in her affection. She took him to her bosom and kissed him; then she say him on her lap and said, “Do not fear, my son, for Nature is but comparing her great power to man’s weakness. There is a Supreme Being beyond the falling snow and the heavy clouds and the blowing wind, and He knows the needs of the earth, for He made it; and He looks upon the weak with merciful eyes.
* * *
“Be brave, my boy. Nature smiles in Spring and laughs in Summer and yawns in Autumn, but now she is weeping; and with her tears she waters life, hidden under the earth.
* * *
“Sleep, my dear child; your father is viewing us from Eternity. The snow and thunder bring us closer to him at this time.
* * *
“Sleep, my beloved, for this white blanket which makes us cold, keeps the seeds warm, and these war-like things will produce beautiful flowers when Nisan comes.
* * *
“Thus, my child, man cannot reap love until after sad and revealing separation, and bitter patience, and desperate hardship. Sleep, my little boy; sweet dreams will find your soul who is unafraid of the terrible darkness of night and the biting frost.”
* * *
The little boy looked upon his mother with sleep-laden eyes and said, “Mother, my eyes are heavy, but I cannot go to bed without saying my prayer.”
* * *
The woman looked at his angelic face, her vision blurred by misted eyes, and said, “Repeat with me, my boy – ‘God, have mercy on the poor and protect them from the winter; warm their thin-clad bodies with Thy merciful hands; look upon the orphans who are sleeping in wretched houses, suffering from hunger and cold. Hear, oh Lord, the call of widows who are helpless and shivering with fear for their young. Open, oh Lord, the hearts of all humans, that they may see the misery of the weak. Have mercy upon the sufferers who knock on doors, and lead the wayfarers into warm places. Watch, oh Lord, over the little birds and protect the trees and fields from the anger of the storm; for Thou art merciful and full of love.’ ”
* * *
As Slumber captured the boy’s spirit, his mother placed him in the bed and kissed his eyes with quivering lips. Then she went back and sat by the hearth, spinning the wool to make him raiment.
Song Of The Soul
In the depth of my soul there is a wordless song
A song that lives in the seed of my heart.
It refuses to melt with ink on pa
rchment ;
It engulfs my affection in a transparent cloak
And flows but not upon my lips.
* * *
How can I sigh it?
I fear it may mingle with earthly ether ;
To whom shall I sing it?
It dwells in the house of my soul,
In fear of harsh ears.
* * *
When I look into my inner eyes I see the shadow of its shadow ;
When I touch my fingertips I feel its vibrations.
* * *
The deeds of my hands heed its presence as a lake must reflect the glittering stars ;
My tears reveal it, as bright drops of dew reveal the secret of a withering rose.
* * *
It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamour,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.
* * *
It is the song of love ;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?
* * *
It is more fragrant than jasmine ;
What voice could enslave it?
* * *
It is heartbound, as a virgin’s secret ;
What string could quiver it?
* * *
Who dares unite the roar of the sea
And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest
To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words
Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice
The song of God?
Song Of The Flower
I am a kind word uttered and repeated by the voice of nature ;
I am a star fallen from the blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements with whom winter conceived ;
To whom Spring gave birth ;
I was reared in the lap of Summer and I slept in the bed of Autumn.
* * *
At dawn I unite with the breeze to announce the coming of light ;
At eventide I join the birds in bidding the light farewell.
* * *
The plains are decorated with my beautiful colours,
And the air is scented with my fragrance.
* * *
As I embrace slumber the eyes of night watch over me,
And as I awaken I stare at the sun,
Which is the only eye of the day.
* * *
I drink dew for wine, and harken to the voices of the birds,
And dance to the rhythmic swaying of the grass.
* * *
I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath ;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness ;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead ;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.
* * *
But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.
Song Of Love
I am the lover’s eyes, and the spirit’s wine, and the heart’s nourishment.
I am a rose.
My heart opens at dawn and the virgin kisses me and places me upon her breast.
* * *
I am the house of true fortune, and the origin of pleasure, and the beginning of peace and tranquillity.
I am the gentle smile upon his lips of beauty.
When youth overtakes me he forgets his toil,
And his whole life becomes reality of sweet dreams.
* * *
I am the poet’s elation,
And the artist’s revelation,
And the musician’s inspiration.
* * *
I am a sacred shrine in the heart of a child, adored by a merciful mother.
* * *
I appear to a heart’s cry; I shun a demand ;
My fullness pursues the heart’s desire ;
It shuns the empty claim of the voice.
* * *
I appeared to Adam through Eve
And exile was his lot ;
Yet I revealed myself to Solomon, and he drew wisdom from my presence.
* * *
I smiled at Helena and she destroyed Tarwada ;
Yet I crowned Cleopatra and peace dominated the Valley of the Nile.
* * *
I am like the ages – building today and destroying tomorrow ;
I am like a god, who creates and ruins ;
I am sweeter than a violet’s sigh ;
I am more violent than a raging tempest.
* * *
Gifts alone do not entice me ;
Parting does not discourage me ;
Poverty does not chase me ;
Jealousy does not prove my awareness ;
Madness does not evidence my presence.
* * *
Oh seekers, I am Truth, beseeching Truth ;
And your Truth in seeking and receiving
And protecting me shall determine my behaviour.
Song Of Man
I was here from the moment of the beginning, and here I am still.
And I shall remain here until the end of the world,
For there is no ending to my grief-stricken being.
* * *
I roamed the infinite sky, and soared in the ideal world, and floated through the firmament.
But here I am, prisoner of measurement.
* * *
I heard the teachings of Confucius ;
I listened to Brahma’s wisdom ;
I sat by Buddha under the Tree of Knowledge.
Yet here I am, existing with ignorance and heresy.
* * *
I was on Sinai when Jehovah approached Moses ;
I saw the Nazarene’s miracles at the Jordan ;
I was in Medina when Mohammed visited.
Yet I here I am, prisoner of bewilderment.
* * *
Then I witnessed the might of Babylon ;
I learned of the glory of Egypt ;
I viewed the warring greatness of Rome.
Yet my earlier teachings showed the weakness and sorrow of those achievements.
* * *
I conversed with the magicians of Ain Dour ;
I debated with the priests of Assyria ;
I gleaned depth from the prophets of Palestine.
Yet, I am still seeking truth.
* * *
I gathered wisdom from quiet India ;
I probed the antiquity of Arabia ;
I heard all that can be heard.
Yet, my heart is deaf and blind.
* * *
I suffered at the hands of despotic rulers ;
I suffered slavery under insane invaders ;
I suffered hunger imposed by tyranny ;
Yet, I still possess some inner power with which I struggle to greet each day.
* * *
My mind is filled, but my heart is empty ;
My body is old, but my heart is an infant.
Perhaps in youth my heart will grow,
But I pray to grow old and reach the moment of my return to God.
Only then will my heart fill!
* * *
I was here from the moment of the beginning, and here I am still.
And I shall remain here until the end ff world,
For there is no ending to my grief-stricken being.
Before The Throne Of Beauty
One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamour of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.
* * *
I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul – my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.
* * *
I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me. As she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, “Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle.”
The Kahlil Gibran Collection Page 14
