Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  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 the 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 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!”

  SONG OF THE RAIN

  I AM dotted silver threads dropped from heaven

  By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn

  Her fields, and valleys.

  I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the

  Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn

  To embellish the gardens.

  When I cry the hills laugh;

  When I humble myself the flowers rejoice;

  When I bow, all things are elated.

  The field and the cloud are lovers

  And between them I am a messenger of mercy.

  I quench the thirst of the one;

  I cure the ailment of the other.

  The voice of thunder declares my arrival;

  The rainbow announces my departure.

  I am like earthly life, which begins at

  The feet of the mad elements and ends

  Under the upraised wings of death.

  I emerge from the heart of the sea and

  Soar with the breeze. When I see a field in

  Need, I descend and embrace the flowers and

  The trees in a million little ways.

  I touch gently at the windows with my

  Soft fingers, and my announcement is a

  Welcome song. All can hear, but only

  The sensitive can understand.

  The heat in the air gives birth to me,

  But in turn I kill it,

  As woman overcomes man with

  The strength she takes from him.

  I am the sigh of the sea;

  The laughter of the field;

  The tears of heaven.

  So with love—

  Sighs from the deep sea of affection;

  Laughter from the colourful field of the spirit;

  Tears from the endless heaven of memories.

  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 took 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 sat 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 sleep 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.

  THE POET

  HE IS link between this and the coming world.

  He is

  A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.

  He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing

  Fruit which the hungry heart craves;

  He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed

  Spirit with his beautiful melodies;

  He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,

  Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.

  Then it falls on the flowers in the Field of Life,

  Opening their petals to admit the light.

  He is an angel, sent by the goddess to

  Preach the Deity’s gospel;

  He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness

  And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with

  Oil by Ishtar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.

  He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and

  Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his

  Inspiration, and stays up in the silence o
f the night,

  Awaiting the descending of the spirit.

  He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the

  Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the

  Harvest for her nourishment.

  This is the poet—whom the people ignore in this life,

  And who is recognized only after he bids the earthly

  World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.

  This is the poet—who asks naught of

  Humanity but a smile.

  This is the poet—whose spirit ascends and

  Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;

  Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.

  Until when shall the people remain asleep?

  Until when shall they continue to glorify those

  Who attained greatness by moments of advantage?

  How long shall they ignore those who enable

  Them to see the beauty of their spirit,

  Symbol of peace and love?

  Until when shall human beings honor the dead

  And forget the living, who spend their lives

  Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves

  Like burning candles to illuminate the way

  For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?

  Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have

  Triumphed over the ages despite their severity.

  Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and

  Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.

  Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will

  Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

  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

  Parchment; 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?

  LAUGHTER AND TEARS

  AS THE SUN withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley.

  When the birds took shelter among the boughs, and the flowers folded their petals, and tremendous silence descended, I heard a rustle of feet through the grass. I took heed and saw a young couple approaching my arbor. They sat under a tree where I could see them without being seen.

  After he looked about in every direction, I heard the young man saying, “Sit by me, my beloved, and listen to my heart; smile, for your happiness is a symbol of our future; be merry, for the sparkling days rejoice with us.

  “My soul is warning me of the doubt in your heart, for doubt in love is a sin.

  “Soon you will be the owner of this vast land, lighted by this beautiful moon; soon you will be the mistress of my palace, and all the servants and maids will obey your commands.

  “Smile, my beloved, like the gold smiles from my father’s coffers.

  “My heart refuses to deny you its secret. Twelve months of comfort and travel await us; for a year we will spend my father’s gold at the blue lakes of Switzerland, and viewing the edifices of Italy and Egypt, and resting under the Holy Cedars of Lebanon; you will meet the princesses who will envy you for your jewels and clothes.

  “All these things I will do for you; will you be satisfied?”

  In a little while I saw them walking and stepping on flowers as the rich step upon the hearts of the poor. As they disappeared from my sight, I commenced to make comparison between love and money, and to analyze their position in my heart.

  Money! The source of insincere love; the spring of false light and fortune; the well of poisoned water; the desperation of old age!

  I was still wandering in the vast desert of contemplation when a forlorn and spectre-like couple passed by me and sat on the grass; a young man and a young woman who had left their farming shacks in the nearby fields for this cool and solitary place.

  After a few moments of complete silence, I heard the following words uttered with sighs from weather-bitten lips, “Shed not tears, my beloved; love that opens our eyes and enslaves our hearts can give us the blessings of patience. Be consoled in our delay, for we have taken an oath and entered Love’s shrine; for our love will ever grow in adversity; for it is in Love’s name that we are suffering the obstacles of poverty and the sharpness of misery and the emptiness of separation. I shall attack these hardships until I triumph and place in your hands a strength that will help over all things to complete the journey of life.

  “Love—which is God—will consider our sighs and tears as incense burned at His altar and He will reward us with fortitude. Good-bye, my beloved; I must leave before the heartening moon vanishes.”

  A pure voice, combined of the consuming flame of love, and the hopeless bitterness of longing and the resolved sweetness of patience, said, “Good-bye, my beloved.”

  They separated, and the elegy to their union was smothered by the wails of my crying heart.

  I looked upon slumbering Nature, and with deep reflection discovered the reality of a vast and infinite thing—something no power could demand, influence acquire, nor riches purchase. Nor could it be effaced by the tears of time or deadened by sorrow; a thing which cannot be discovered by the blue lakes of Switzerland or the beautiful edifices of Italy.

  It is something that gathers strength with patience, grows despite obstacles, warms in winter, flourishes in spring, casts a breeze in summer, and bears fruit in autumn—I found Love.

  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 beau
tiful 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 hearken 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.

  VISION

  THERE in the middle of the field, by the side of a crystalline stream, I saw a bird-cage whose rods and hinges were fashioned by an expert’s hands. In one corner lay a dead bird, and in another were two basins—one empty of water and the other of seeds. I stood there reverently, as if the lifeless bird and the murmur of the water were worthy of deep silence and respect—something worthy of examination and meditation by the heart and conscience.

  As I engrossed myself in view and thought, I found that the poor creature had died of thirst beside a stream of water, and of hunger in the midst of a rich field, cradle of life; like a rich man locked inside his iron safe, perishing from hunger amid heaps of gold.

  Before my eyes I saw the cage turned suddenly into a human skeleton, and the dead bird into a man’s heart which was bleeding from a deep wound that looked like the lips of a sorrowing woman. A voice came from that wound saying, “I am the human heart, prisoner of substance and victim of earthly laws.

  “In God’s field of Beauty, at the edge of the stream of life, I was imprisoned in the cage of laws made by man.

  “In the center of beautiful Creation I died neglected because I was kept from enjoying the freedom of God’s bounty.

  “Everything of beauty that awakens my love and desire is a disgrace, according to man’s conceptions; everything of goodness that I crave is but naught, according to his judgment.