Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  “Oh Jesus, have mercy upon the oppressed poor who came today to commemorate Thy Resurrection…. Pity them, for they are miserable and weak.”

  John’s talk appealed to one group and displeased another. “He is telling the truth, and speaking in our behalf before heaven,” one remarked. And another one said, “He is bewitched, for he speaks in the name of an evil spirit.” And a third commented, “We have never heard such infamous talk, not even from our fathers! We must bring it to an end!” And a fourth one said, whispering into the next man’s ears, “I felt a new spirit in me when I heard him talking.” The next man added, “But the priests know our needs more so than he does; it is a sin to doubt them.” As the voices grew from every direction like the roar of the sea, one of the priests approached, placed John in restraint and turned him immediately to the law, whereupon he was taken to the Governor’s palace for trial.

  Upon his interrogation, John uttered not a single word, for he knew that the Nazarene resorted to silence before His persecutors. The governor ordered John to be placed in a prison, where he slept peacefully and heart-cleansed that night, leaning his head on the rock wall of the dungeon.

  The next day John’s father came and testified before the Governor that his son was mad, and added, sadly, “Many times have I heard him talking to himself and speaking of many strange things that none could see or understand. Many times did he sit talking in the silence of the night, using vague words. I heard him calling the ghosts with a voice like that of a sorcerer. You may ask the neighbors who talked to him and found beyond doubt that he was insane. He never answered when one spoke to him, and when he spoke, he uttered cryptic words and phrases unknown to the listener and out of the subject. His mother knows him well. Many times she saw him gazing at the distant horizon with glazed eyes and speaking with passion, like a small child, about the brooks and the flowers and the stars. Ask the monks whose teachings he ridiculed and criticized during their sacred Lent. He is insane, Your Excellency, but he is very kind to me and to his mother; he does much to help us in our old age, and he works with diligence to keep us fed and warm and alive. Pity him, and have mercy on us.”

  The Governor released John, and the news of his madness spread throughout the village. And when the people spoke of John they mentioned his name with humour and ridicule, and the maidens looked upon him with sorrowful eyes and said, “Heaven has its strange purpose in man…. God united beauty and insanity in this youth, and joined the kind brightness of his eyes with the darkness of his unseen self.”

  In the midst of God’s fields and prairies, and by the side of the knolls, carpeted with green grass and beautiful flowers, the ghost of John, alone and restless, watches the oxen grazing peacefully, undisturbed by man’s hardships. With tearful eyes he looks toward the scattered villages on both sides of the valley and repeats with deep sighs, “You are numerous and I am alone; the wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night, but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes, and the sun reveals the crime to all.”

  * A rich abbey in North Lebanon with vast lands, occupied by scores of monks called Alepoans. (Editor’s note.)

  THE ENCHANTING HOURI

  WHERE are you leading me, Oh Enchanting

  Houri, and how long shall I follow you

  Upon this hispid road, planted with

  Thorns? How long shall our souls ascend

  And descend painfully on this twisting

  And rocky path?

  Like a child following his mother I am

  Following you, holding the extreme end

  Of your garment, forgetting my dreams

  And staring at your beauty, blinding

  My eyes under your spell to the

  Procession of spectres hovering above

  Me, and attracted to you by an inner

  Force within me which I cannot deny.

  Halt for a moment and let me see your

  Countenance; and look upon me for a

  Moment; perhaps I will learn your

  Heart’s secrets through your strange

  Eyes. Stop and rest, for I am weary,

  And my soul is trembling with fear

  Upon this horrible trail. Halt, for

  We have reached that terrible crossroad

  Where Death embraces Life.

  Oh Houri, listen to me! I was as free

  As the birds, probing the valleys and

  The forests, and flying in the spacious

  Sky. At eventide I rested upon the

  Branches of the trees, meditating the

  Temples and palaces in the City of the

  Colourful Clouds which the Sun builds

  In the morning and destroys before

  Twilight.

  I was like a thought, walking alone

  And at peace to the East and West of

  The Universe, rejoicing with the

  Beauty and joy of Life, and inquiring

  Into the magnificent mystery of

  Existence.

  I was like a dream, stealing out under

  The friendly wings of the night,

  Entering through the closed windows

  Into the maidens’ chambers, frolicking

  And awakening their hopes…. Then I

  Sat by the youths and agitated their

  Desires…. Then I probed the elders’

  Quarters and penetrated their thoughts

  Of serene contentment.

  Then you captured my fancy, and since

  That hypnotic moment I felt like a

  Prisoner dragging his shackles and

  Impelled into an unknown place….

  I became intoxicated with your sweet

  Wine that has stolen my will, and I

  Now find my lips kissing the hand

  That strikes me sharply. Can you

  Not see with your soul’s eye the

  Crushing of my heart? Halt for a

  Moment; I am regaining my strength

  And untying my weary feet from the

  Heavy chains. I have crushed the

  Cup from which I have drunk your

  Tasty venom…. But now I am in

  A strange land, and bewildered;

  Which road shall I follow?

  My freedom has been restored; will

  You now accept me as a willing

  Companion, who looks at the Sun

  With glazed eyes and grasps the

  Fire with untrembling fingers?

  I have unbound my wings and I am

  Ready to ascend; will you accompany

  A youth who spends his days roaming

  The mountains like the lone eagle, and

  Wastes his nights wandering in the

  Deserts like the restless lion?

  Will you content yourself with the

  Affection of one who looks upon Love

  As but an entertainer, and declines

  To accept her as his master?

  Will you accept a heart that loves,

  But never yields? And burns, but

  Never melts? Will you be at ease

  With a soul that quivers before the

  Tempest, but never surrenders to it?

  Will you accept one as a companion

  Who makes not slaves, nor will become

  One? Will you own me but not possess

  Me, by taking my body and not my heart?

  Then here is my hand—grasp it with

  Your beautiful hand; and here is my

  Body—embrace it with your loving

  Arms; and here are my lips—bestow

  Upon them a deep and dizzying kiss.

  BEHIND THE GARMENT

  RACHEL woke at midnight and gazed intently at something invisible in the sky of her chamber. She heard a voice more soothing than the whispers of Life, and more dismal than the moaning call of the abyss, and softer than the rustling of white wings, and deeper than the message of the waves…. It vibrated with hope and with fut
ility, with joy and with misery, and with affection for life, yet with desire for death. Then Rachel closed her eyes and sighed deeply, and gasped, saying, “Dawn has reached the extreme end of the valley; we should go toward the sun and meet him.” Her lips were parted, resembling and echoing a deep wound in the soul.

  At that moment the priest approached her bed and felt her hand, but found it as cold as the snow; and when he grimly placed his fingers upon her heart, he determined that it was as immobile as the ages, and as silent as the secret of his heart.

  The reverend father bowed his head in deep despair. His lips quivered as if wanting to utter a divine word, repeated by the phantoms of the night in the distant and deserted valleys.

  After crossing her arms upon her bosom, the priest looked toward a man sitting in an obscured corner of the room, and with a kind and merciful voice he said, “Your beloved has reached the great circle of light. Come, my brother, let us kneel and pray.”

  The sorrowful husband lifted his head; his eyes stared, gazing at the unseen, and his expression then changed as if he saw understanding in the ghost of an unknown God. He gathered the remnants of himself and walked reverently toward the bed of his wife, and knelt by the side of the clergyman who was praying and lamenting and making the sign of the cross.

  Placing his hand upon the shoulder of the grief-stricken husband, the Father said quietly, “Go to the adjoining room, brother, for you are in great need of rest.”

  He rose obediently, walked to the room and threw his fatigued body upon a narrow bed, and in a few moments he was sailing in the world of sleep like a little child taking refuge in the merciful arms of his loving mother.

  The priest remained standing like a statue in the center of the room, and a strange conflict gripped him. And he looked with tearful eyes first at the cold body of the young woman and then through the parted curtain at her husband, who had surrendered himself to the allure of slumber. An hour, longer than an age and more terrible than Death, had already passed, and the priest was still standing between two parted souls. One was dreaming as a field dreams of the coming Spring after the tragedy of Winter, and the other was resting eternally.

  Then the priest came close to the body of the young woman and knelt as if worshipping before the altar; he held her cold hand and placed it against his trembling lips, and looked at her face that was adorned with the soft veil of Death. His voice was at the same time calm as the night and deep as the chasm and faltering as with the hopes of man. And in voice he wept, “Oh Rachel, bride of my soul, hear me! At last I am able to talk! Death has opened my lips so that I can now reveal to you a secret deeper than Life itself. Pain has unpinioned my tongue and I can disclose to you my suffering, more painful than pain. Listen to the cry of my soul, Oh Pure Spirit, hovering between the earth and the firmament. Give heed to the youth who waited for you to come from the field, gazing upon you from behind the trees, in fear of your beauty. Hear the priest, who is serving God, calling to you unashamed, after you have reached the City of God. I have proved the strength of my love by concealing it!”

  Having thus opened his soul, the Father leaned over and printed three long, warm, and mute kisses upon her forehead, eyes and throat, pouring forth all his heart’s secret of love and pain, and the anguish of the years. Then he suddenly withdrew to the dark corner and dropped in agony upon the floor, shaking like an Autumn leaf, as if the touch of her cold face had awakened within him the spirit to repent; whereupon he composed himself and knelt, hiding his face with his cupped hands, and he whispered softly, “God…. Forgive my sin; forgive my weakness, Oh Lord. I could no longer resist disclosing that which You knew. Seven years have I kept the deep secrets hidden in my heart from the spoken word, until Death came and tore them from me. Help me, Oh God, to hide this terrible and beautiful memory which brings sweetness from life and bitterness from You. Forgive me, My Lord, and forgive my weakness.”

  Without looking at the young woman’s corpse, he continued suffering and lamenting until Dawn came and dropped a rosy veil upon those two still images, revealing the conflict of Love and Religion to one man; the peace of Life and Death to the other.

  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 Go
d 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,

  I would have said, “A great and

  Mysterious law has been moved by

  The will of divine force, and it

  Would be pure madness if we frail

  Mortals endeavoured to probe its

  Deep secrets….”

  But my people did not die as rebels;

  They were not killed in the field

  Of battle; nor did the earthquake

  Shatter my country and subdue them.

  Death was their only rescuer, and

  Starvation their only spoils.

  My people died on the cross….

  They died while their hands

  Stretched toward the East and West,

  While the remnants of their eyes