Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  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

  Us for an hour, you croak and clamour merrily

  Like the frogs of the water. And when we

  Conquer you and subdue you for an Age, we

  Remain as silent giants.

  You crucified Jesus and stood below Him,

  Blaspheming and mocking at Him; but at last

  He came down and overcame the generations,

  And walked among you as a hero, filling the

  Universe with His glory and His beauty.

  You poisoned Socrates and stoned Paul and

  Destroyed Ali Talib and assassinated

  Madhat Pasha, and yet those immortals are

  With us forever before the face of Eternity.

  But you live in the memory of man like

  Corpses upon the face of the earth; and you

  Cannot find a friend who will bury you in

  The obscurity of non-existence and oblivion,

  Which you sought on earth.

  We are the sons of Sorrow, and sorrow is a

  Rich cloud, showering the multitudes with

  Knowledge and Truth. You are the sons of

  Joy, and as high as your joy may reach,

  By the Law of God it must be destroyed

  Before the winds of heaven and dispersed

  Into nothingness, for it is naught but a

  Thin and wavering pillar of smoke.

  THE LONELY POET

  I AM 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, si
nging 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.

  ASHES OF THE AGES AND ETERNAL FIRE

  PART ONE

  Spring of the Year 116 B.C.

  NIGHT had fallen and silence prevailed while life slumbered in the City of the Sun,* and the lamps were extinguished in the scattered houses about the majestic temples amidst the olive and laurel trees. The moon poured its silver rays upon the white marble columns that stood like giants in the silence of the night, guarding the god’s temples and looking with perplexity toward the towers of Lebanon that sat bristling upon the foreheads of the distant hills.

  At that hour, while souls succumbed to the allure of slumber, Nathan, the son of the High Priest, entered Ishtar’s temple, bearing a torch in trembling hands. He lighted the lamps and censers until the aromatic scent of myrrh and frankincense reached to the farthest corners; then he knelt before the altar, studded with inlays of ivory and gold, raised his hands toward Ishtar, and with a painful and choking voice he cried out, saying, “Have mercy upon me, O great Ishtar, goddess of Love and Beauty. Be merciful, and remove the hands of Death from my beloved, whom my soul has chosen by thy will…. The potions of the physicians and the wizards do not restore her life, neither the enchantments of the priests and the sorcerers. Naught is left to be done except thy holy will. Thou art my guide and my aid. Have mercy on me and grant my prayers!* Gaze upon my crushed heart and aching soul! Spare my beloved’s life so that we may rejoice with the secrets of thy love, and glory in the beauty of youth that reveals the mystery of thy strength and wisdom. From the depths of my heart I cry unto thee, O exalted Ishtar, and from behind the darkness of the night I beg thy mercy; hear me, O Ishtar! I am thy good servant Nathan, the son of the High Priest Hiram, and I devote all of my deeds and words to thy greatness at thy altar.

  “I love a maiden amongst all maidens and made her my companion, but the genii brides envied her and blew into her body a strange affliction and sent unto her the messenger of Death who is standing by her bed like a hungry spectre, spreading his black ribbed wings over her, stretching forth his sharp claws in readiness to prey upon her. I come here now beseeching you to have mercy upon me and spare that flower who has not yet rejoiced with the summer of Life.

  “Save her from the grasp of Death so we may sing joyfully thy praise and burn incense in thine honour and offer sacrifices at thy altar, filling thy vases with perfumed oil and spreading roses and violets upon the portico of thy place of worship, burning frankincense before thy shrine. Save her, O Ishtar, goddess of miracles, and let Love overcome Death in this struggle of Joy against Sorrow.”*

  Nathan then became silent. His eyes were flooded with tears and his heart was uttering sorrowful sighs; then he continued, “Alas, my dreams are shattered, O Ishtar divine, and my heart is melted within; enliven me with thy mercy and spare my beloved.”

  At that moment one of his slaves entered the temple, hastened to Nathan, and whispered to him, “She has opened her eyes, Master, and looked about her bed, but could not find you; then she called for you, and I used all speed to advise you.”

  Nathan departed hurriedly and the slave followed him.

  When he reached his palace, he entered the chamber of the ailing maiden, leaned over her bed, held her frail hand, and printed several kisses upon her lips as if striving to breathe into her body a new life from his own life. She moved her head on the silk cushions and opened her eyes. And upon her lips appeared the phantom of a smile which was the faint residue of life in her wasted body … the echo of the calling of a heart which is racing toward a halt; and with a voice that bespoke the weakening cries of a hungry infant on the breast of a withered mother, she said, “The goddess has called me, Oh Life of my Soul, and Death has come to sever me from you; but fear not, for the will of the goddess is sacred, and the demands of Death are just. I am departing now, and I hear the rustle of the whiteness descending, but the cups of Love and Youth are still full in our hands, and the flowered paths of beautiful Life are extended before us. I am embarking, My Beloved, upon an ark of the spirit, and I shall come back to this world, for great Ishtar will bring back to life those souls of loving humans who departed to Eternity before they enjoyed the sweetness of Love and the happiness of Youth.

  “We shall meet again, Oh Nathan, and drink together the dew of the dawn from the cupped petals of the lilies, and rejoice with the birds of the fields over the colours of the rainbow. Until then, My Forever, farewell.”*

  Her voice lowered and her lips trembled like a lone flower before the gusts of dawn. Nathan embraced her with pouring tears, and as he pressed his lips upon her lips, he found them cold as the stone of the field. He uttered a terrible cry and commenced tearing his raiment; he threw himself upon her dead body while his shivering soul was sailing fitfully between the mountain of Life and the precipice of Death.

  In the silence of the night, the slumbering souls were awakened. Women and children were frightened as they heard mighty rumbling and painful wailing and bitter lamentation coming from the corners of the palace of the High Priest of Ishtar.

  When the tired morn arrived, the people asked about Nathan to offer their sympathy, but were told that he had disappeared. And after a fortnight, the chief of a caravan arriving from the East related that he had seen Nathan in the distant wilderness, wandering with a flock of gazelles.

  The ages passed, crushing with their invisible feet the feeble acts of the civilizations, and the goddess of Love and Beauty had left the country. A strange and fickle goddess took her place. She destroyed the magnificent temples of the City of the Sun and demolished its beautiful palaces. The blooming orchards and fertile prairies were laid waste and nothing was left in that spot save ruins commemorating to the aching souls the ghosts of Yesterday, repeating to the sorrowful spirits only the echo of the hymns of glory.

  But the severe ages that crushed the deeds of man could not destroy his dreams; nor could they weaken his love, for dreams and affections are ever-living with the Eternal Spirit. They may disappear for a time, pursuing the sun when the night comes, and the stars when morning appears, but like the lights of heaven, they must surely return.

  PART TWO

  Spring of the Year 1890 A.D.

  The day was over, Nature was making her many preparations for slumber, and the sun withdrew its golden rays from the plains of Baalbek. Ali El Hosseini* brought his herd back to the she’d in the midst of the ruins of the temples. He sat there near the ancient columns which symbolized the bones of countless soldiers left behind in the field of battle. The sheep folded around him, charmed with the music of his flute.

  Midnight came, and heaven sowed the seeds of the following day in the deep furrows of the darkness. Ali’s eyes became tired of the phantoms of awakeness, and his mind was wearied by the procession of ghosts marching in horrible silence amidst the demolished walls. He leaned upon his arm, and sleep captured his senses with the extreme end of its plaited veil, like a delicate cloud touching the face of a calm lake. He forgot his actual self and encountered his invisible self, rich with dreams and ideals higher than the laws and teachings of man. The circle of vision broadened before his eyes, and Life’s hidden secrets gradually became apparent to him. His soul abandoned the rapid parade of time rushing toward nothingness; it stood alone
before symmetrical thoughts and crystal ideas. For the first time in his life, Ali was aware of the causes for the spiritual famine that had accompanied his youth…. The famine which levels away the pit between the sweetness and the bitterness of Life…. That thirst which unites into contentment the sighs of Affection and the silence of Satisfaction…. That longing which cannot be vanquished by the glory of the world nor twisted by the passing of the ages. Ali felt the surge of a strange affection and a kind tenderness within himself which was Memory, enlivening itself like incense placed upon white firebrands…. It was a magic love whose soft fingers had touched Ali’s heart as a musician’s delicate fingers touch quivering strings. It was a new power emanating from nothingness and growing forcefully, embracing his real self and filling his spirit with ardent love, at once painful and sweet.

  Ali looked toward the ruins and his heavy eyes became alert as he fancied the glory of those devastated shrines that stood as mighty, impregnable, and eternal temples long before. His eyes became motionless and the breathing of his heart quickened. And like a blind man whose sight has suddenly been restored, he commenced to see, think and meditate…. He recollected the lamps and the silver censers that surrounded the image of an adored and revered goddess…. He remembered the priests offering sacrifices before an altar built of ivory and gold…. He envisioned the dancing maidens, and the tambourine players, and the singers who chanted the praise of the goddess of Love and Beauty; he saw all this before him, and felt the impression of their obscurity in the choking depths of his heart.

  But memory alone brings naught save echoes of voices heard in the depths of the long ago. What, then, is the bizarre relationship between these powerful, weaving memories and the past actual life of a simple youth who was born in a tent and who spent the spring of his life grazing sheep in the valleys?

  Ali gathered himself and walked amidst the ruins, and the gnawing memories suddenly tore the veil of oblivion from his thoughts. As he reached the great and cavernous entrance to the temple, he halted as if a magnetic power gripped him and fastened his feet. As he looked downward, he found a smashed statue on the ground. He broke from the grasp of the Unseen and at once his soul’s tears unleashed and poured like blood issuing from a deep wound; his heart roared in ebb and flow like the welling waves of the sea. He sighed bitterly and cried painfully, for he felt a stabbing aloneness and a destructive remoteness standing as an abyss between his heart and the heart from whom he was torn before he entered upon this life. He felt that his soul’s element was but a flame from the burning torch which God had separated from Himself before the passing of the Ages. He perceived the feathery touch of delicate wings rustling about his flaming heart, and a great love possessing him…. A love whose power separates the mind from the world of quantity and measurement…. A love that talks when the tongue of Life is muted…. A love that stands as a blue beacon to point out the path, guiding with no visible light. That love or that God who descended in that quiet hour upon Ali’s heart had seared into his being a bitter and sweet affection, like thorns growing by the side of the flourishing flowers.