The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  Obey her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower

  The cup of the sweetness of life.

  As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my

  Comforting groom; your memory, my Eternal wedding.”

  Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in

  The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey

  To you my heart’s every beat and affection.

  Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image

  Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his

  Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.

  Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty

  And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.

  Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping

  From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?

  Do you know the greatness of my patience?

  Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying

  To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any

  Secret communication between angels that will carry to

  You my complaint?

  Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life

  Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.

  Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!

  Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

  Where are you, my beloved?

  Oh, how great is Love!

  And how little am I!

  THE PALACE AND THE HUT

  PART ONE

  AS NIGHT fell and the light glittered in the great house, the servants stood at the massive door awaiting the coming of the guests; and upon their velvet garments shone golden buttons.

  The magnificent carriages drew into the palace park and the nobles entered, dressed in gorgeous raiment and decorated with jewels. The instruments filled the air with pleasant melodies while the dignitaries danced to the soothing music.

  At midnight the finest and most palatable foods were served on a beautiful table embellished with all kinds of the rarest flowers. The feasters dined and drank abundantly, until the sequence of the wine began to play its part. At dawn the throng dispersed boisterously, after spending a long night of intoxication and gluttony which hurried their worn bodies into their deep beds with unnatural sleep.

  PART TWO

  At eventide, a man attired in the dress of heavy work stood before the door of his small house and knocked at the door. As it opened, he entered and greeted the occupants in a cheerful manner, and then sat between his children who were playing at the fireplace. In a short time, his wife had the meal prepared and they sat at a wooden table consuming their food. After eating they gathered around the oil lamp and talked of the day’s events. When early night had lapsed, all stood silently and surrendered themselves to the King of Slumber with a song of praise and a prayer of gratitude upon their lips.

  THE LONELY POET

  IAM A STRANGER in this world, and there is a severe solitude and painful lonesomeness in my exile. I am alone, but in my aloneness I contemplate an unknown and enchanting country, and this meditation fills my dreams with spectres of a great and distant land which my eyes have never seen.

  I am a stranger among my people and I have no friends. When I see a person I say within myself, “Who is he, and in what manner do I know him, and why is he here, and what law has joined me with him?”

  I am a stranger to myself, and when I hear my tongue speak, my ears wonder over my voice; I see my inner self smiling, crying, braving, and fearing; and my existence wonders over my substance while my soul interrogates my heart; but I remain unknown, engulfed by tremendous silence.

  My thoughts are strangers to my body, and as I stand before the mirror, I see something in my face which my soul does not see, and I find in my eyes what my inner self does not find.

  When I walk vacant-eyed through the streets of the clamourous city, the children follow me, shouting, “Here is a blind man! Let us give him a walking cane to feel his way.” When I run from them, I meet with a group of maidens, and they grasp the edges of my garment, saying, “He is deaf like the rock; let us fill his ears with the music of love.” And when I flee from them, a throng of aged people point at me with trembling fingers and say, “He is a madman who lost his mind in the world of genii and ghouls.”

  I am a stranger in this world; I roamed the Universe from end to end, but could not find a place to rest my head; nor did I know any human I confronted, neither an individual who would hearken to my mind.

  When I open my sleepless eyes at dawn, I find myself imprisoned in a dark cave from whose ceiling hang the insects and upon whose floor crawl the vipers.

  When I go out to meet the light, the shadow of my body follows me, but the shadow of my spirit precedes me and leads the way to an unknown place seeking things beyond my understanding, and grasping objects that are meaningless to me.

  At eventide I return and lie upon my bed, made of soft feathers and lined with thorns, and I contemplate and feel the troublesome and happy desires, and sense the painful and joyous hopes.

  At midnight the ghosts of the past ages and the spirits of the forgotten civilization enter through the crevices of the cave to visit me … I stare at them and they gaze upon me; I talk to them and they answer me smilingly. Then I endeavour to clutch them, but they sift through my fingers and vanish like the mist which rests on the lake.

  I am a stranger in this world, and there is no one in the Universe who understands the language I speak. Patterns of bizarre remembrance form suddenly in my mind, and my eyes bring forth queer images and sad ghosts. I walk in the deserted prairies, watching the streamlets running fast, up and up from the depths of the valley to the top of the mountain; I watch the naked trees blooming and bearing fruit, and shedding their leaves in one instant, and then I see the branches fall and turn into speckled snakes. I see the birds hovering above, singing and wailing; then they stop and open their wings and turn into undraped maidens with long hair, looking at me from behind kohled and infatuated eyes, and smiling at me with full lips soaked with honey, stretching their scented hands toward me. Then they ascend and disappear from my sight like phantoms, leaving in the firmament the resounding echo of their taunts and mocking laughter.

  I am a stranger in this world … I am a poet who composes what life proses, and who proses what life composes.

  For this reason I am a stranger, and I shall remain a stranger until the white and friendly wings of Death carry me home into my beautiful country. There, where light and peace and understanding abide, I will await the other strangers who will be rescued by the friendly trap of time from this narrow, dark world.

  SECRETS OF THE HEART

  A MAJESTIC mansion stood under the wings of the silent night, as Life stands under the cover of Death. In it sat a maiden at an ivory desk, leaning her beautiful head on her soft hand, as a withering lily leans upon its petals. She looked around, feeling like a miserable prisoner, struggling to penetrate the walls of the dungeon with her eyes in order to witness Life walking in the procession of Freedom.

  The hours passed like the ghosts of the night, as a procession chanting the dirge of her sorrow, and the maiden felt secure with the shedding of her tears in anguished solitude. When she could not resist the pressure of her suffering any longer, and as she felt that she was in full possession of the treasured secrets of her heart, she took the quill and commenced mingling her tears with ink upon parchment and she inscribed:

  “My Beloved Sister,

  “When the heart becomes congested with secrets, and the eyes begin to burn from the searing tears, and the ribs are about to burst with the growing of the heart’s confinement, one cannot find expression for such a labyrinth except by a surge of release.

  “Sorrowful persons find joy in lamentation, and lovers encounter comfort and condolence in dreams, and the oppressed delight in receiving sympathy. I am writing to you now because I
feel like a poet who fancies the beauty of objects whose impression he composes in verse while being ruled by a divine power.… I am like a child of the starving poor who cries for food, instigated by bitterness of hunger, disregarding the plight of his poor and merciful mother and her defeat in life.

  “Listen to my painful story, my dear sister, and weep with me, for sobbing is like a prayer, and the tears of mercy are like a charity because they come forth from a living and sensitive and good soul and they are not shed in vain. It was the will of my father when I married a noble and rich man. My father was like most of the rich, whose only joy in life is to improve their wealth by adding more gold to their coffers in fear of poverty, and curry nobility with grandeur in anticipation of the attacks of the black days.… I find myself now, with all my love and dreams, a victim upon a golden altar which I hate, and an inherited honour which I despise.

  “I respect my husband because he is generous and kind to all; he endeavours to bring happiness to me, and spends his gold to please my heart, but I have found that the impression of all these things is not worth one moment of a true and divine love. Do not ridicule me, my sister, for I am now a most enlightened person regarding the needs of a woman’s heart—that throbbing heart which is like a bird flying in the spacious sky of love.… It is like a vase replenished with the wine of the ages that has been pressed for the sipping souls.… It is like a book in whose pages one reads the chapters of happiness and misery, joy and pain, laughter and sorrow. No one can read this book except the true companion who is the other half of the woman, created for her since the beginning of the world.

  “Yes, I became most knowing amongst all women as to the purpose of the soul and meaning of the heart, for I have found that my magnificent horses and beautiful carriages and glittering coffers of gold and sublime nobility are not worth one glance from the eyes of that poor young man who is patiently waiting and suffering the pangs of bitterness and misery.… That youth who is oppressed by the cruelty and will of my father, and imprisoned in the narrow and melancholy jail of Life.…

  “Please, my dear, do not contrive to console me, for the calamity through which I have realized the power of my love is my great consoler. Now I am looking forward from behind my tears and awaiting the coming of Death to lead me to where I will meet the companion of my soul and embrace him as I did before we entered this strange world.

  “Do not think evil of me, for I am doing my duty as a faithful wife, and complying calmly and patiently with the laws and rules of man. I honour my husband with my sense, and respect him with my heart, and revere him with my soul, but there is a withholding, for God gave part of me to my beloved before I knew him.

  “Heaven willed that I spend my life with a man not meant for me, and I am wasting my days silently according to the will of Heaven; but if the gates of Eternity do not open, I will remain with the beautiful half of my soul and look back to the Past, and that Past is this Present.… I shall look at life as Spring looks at Winter, and contemplate the obstacles of Life as one who has climbed the rough trail and reached the mountain top.”

  At that moment the maiden ceased writing and hid her face with her cupped hands and wept bitterly. Her heart declined to entrust to the pen its most sacred secrets, but resorted to the pouring of dry tears that dispersed quickly and mingled with the gentle ether, the haven of the lovers’ souls and the flowers’ spirits. After a moment she took the quill and added, “Do you remember that youth? Do you recollect the rays which emanated from his eyes, and the sorrowful signs upon his face? Do you recall that laughter which bespoke the tears of a mother, torn from her only child? Can you retrace his serene voice speaking the echo of a distant valley? Do you remember him meditating and staring longingly and calmly at objects and speaking of them in strange words, and then bending his head and sighing as if fearing to reveal the secrets of his great heart? Do you recall his dreams and beliefs? Do you recollect all these things in a youth whom humanity counts as one of her children and upon whom my father looked with eyes of superiority because he is higher than earthly greed and nobler than inherited grandeur?

  “You know, my dear sister, that I am a martyr in this belittling world, and a victim of ignorance. Will you sympathize with a sister who sits in the silence of the horrible night pouring down the contents of her inner self and revealing to you her heart’s secrets? I am sure that you will sympathize with me, for I know that Love has visited your heart.”

  Dawn came, and the maiden surrendered herself to Slumber, hoping to find sweeter and more gentle dreams than those she had encountered in her awakeness.…

  DEAD ARE MY PEOPLE

  (Written in exile during the famine in Syria)

  WORLD WAR I

  GONE are my people, but I exist yet,

  Lamenting them in my solitude.…

  Dead are my friends, and in their

  Death my life is naught but great

  Disaster.

  The knolls of my country are submerged

  By tears and blood, for my people and

  My beloved are gone, and I am here

  Living as I did when my people and my

  Beloved were enjoying life and the

  Bounty of life, and when the hills of

  My country were blessed and engulfed

  By the light of the sun.

  My people died from hunger, and he who

  Did not perish from starvation was

  Butchered with the sword; and I am

  Here in this distant land, roaming

  Amongst a joyful people who sleep

  Upon soft beds, and smile at the days

  While the days smile upon them.

  My people died a painful and shameful

  Death, and here am I living in plenty

  And in peace.… This is deep tragedy

  Ever-enacted upon the stage of my

  Heart; few would care to witness this

  Drama, for my people are as birds with

  Broken wings, left behind by the flock.

  If I were hungry and living amid my

  Famished people, and persecuted among

  My oppressed countrymen, the burden

  Of the black days would be lighter

  Upon my restless dreams, and the

  Obscurity of the night would be less

  Dark before my hollow eyes and my

  Crying heart and my wounded soul.

  For he who shares with his people

  Their sorrow and agony will feel a

  Supreme comfort created only by

  Suffering in sacrifice. And he will

  Be at peace with himself when he dies

  Innocent with his fellow innocents.

  But I am not living with my hungry

  And persecuted people who are walking

  In the procession of death toward

  Martyrdom.… I am here beyond the

  Broad seas living in the shadow of

  Tranquility, and in the sunshine of

  Peace.… I am afar from the pitiful

  Arena and the distressed, and cannot

  Be proud of aught, not even of my own

  Tears.

  What can an exiled son do for his

  Starving people, and of what value

  Unto them is the lamentation of an

  Absent poet?

  Were I an ear of corn grown in the earth

  Of my country, the hungry child would

  Pluck me and remove with my kernels

  The hand of Death from his soul. Were

  I a ripe fruit in the gardens of my

  Country, the starving woman would

  Gather me and sustain life. Were I

  A bird flying in the sky of my country,

  My hungry brother would hunt me and

  Remove with the flesh of my body the

  Shadow of the grave from his body.

  But alas! I am not an ear of corn

  Grown in the plains of Syria, nor a

  Ripe fruit
in the valleys of Lebanon;

  This is my disaster, and this is my

  Mute calamity which brings humiliation

  Before my soul and before the phantoms

  Of the night.… This is the painful

  Tragedy which tightens my tongue and

  Pinions my arms and arrests me usurped

  Of power and of will and of action.

  This is the curse burned upon my

  Forehead before God and man.

  And oftentime they say unto me,

  “The disaster of your country is

  But naught to the calamity of the

  World, and the tears and blood shed

  By your people are as nothing to

  The rivers of blood and tears

  Pouring each day and night in the

  Valleys and plains of the earth.…”

  Yes, but the death of my people is

  A silent accusation; it is a crime

  Conceived by the heads of the unseen

  Serpents.… It is a songless and

  Sceneless tragedy.… And if my

  People had attacked the despots

  And oppressors and died as rebels,

  I would have said, “Dying for

  Freedom is nobler than living in

  The shadow of weak submission, for

  He who embraces death with the sword

  Of Truth in his hand will eternalize

  With the Eternity of Truth, for Life

  Is weaker than Death and Death is

  Weaker than Truth.

  If my nation had partaken in the war

  Of all nations and had died in the

  Field of battle, I would say that

  The raging tempest had broken with

  Its might the green branches; and

  Strong death under the canopy of

  The tempest is nobler than slow

  Perishment in the arms of senility.

  But there was no rescue from the

  Closing jaws.… My people dropped

  And wept with the crying angels.

  If an earthquake had torn my

  Country asunder and the earth had

  Engulfed my people into its bosom,