The Emir shook his head, smiled, and said, “From India come many strange and wonderful things. Call in the sage that we may hear his words of wisdom.”
As soon as he uttered these words, a dark-hued, aged man walked in with dignity and stood before the Emir. His large brown eyes spoke, without words, of deep secrets. He bowed, raised his head, his eyes glittered, and he commenced to speak.
He explained how the spirits pass from one body to another, elevated by the good acts of the medium which they choose, and influenced by their experience in each existence; aspiring toward a splendor that exalts them and strengthens their growth by Love that makes them both happy and miserable….
Then the philosopher dwelt on the manner in which the spirits move from place to place in their quest for perfection, atoning in the present for sins committed in the past, and reaping in one existence what they had sown in another.
Observing signs of restlessness and weariness on the Emir’s countenance, the old vizier whispered to the sage, “You have preached enough at present; please postpone the rest of your discourse until our next meeting.”
Thereupon the sage withdrew from the Emir’s presence and sat among the priests and chiefs, closing his eyes as if weary of gazing into the deeps of Existence.
After a profound silence, similar to the trance of a prophet, the Emir looked to the right and to the left and inquired, “Where is our poet, we have not seen him for many days. What became of him? He always attended our meeting.”
A priest responded, saying, “A week ago I saw him sitting in the portico of Ishtar’s temple, staring with glazed and sorrowful eyes at the distant evening twilight as if one of his poems had strayed among the clouds.”
And a chief added, “I saw him yesterday standing beneath the shade of the willow and cypress trees. I greeted him but he gave no heed to my greeting, and remained submerged in the deep sea of his thoughts and meditations.”
Then the Grand Eunuch said, “I saw him today in the palace garden, with pale and haggard face, sighing, and his eyes full of tears.”
“Go seek out this unhappy soul, for his absence from our midst troubles us,” ordered the Emir.
At this command, the slaves and the guards left the hall to seek the poet, while the Emir and his priests and chiefs remained in the assembly hall awaiting their return. It seemed as if their spirits had felt his invisible presence among them.
Soon the Grand Eunuch returned and prostrated himself at the feet of the Emir like a bird shot by the arrow of an archer. Whereupon the Emir shouted at him saying, “What happened … what have you to say?” The slave raised his head and said in a trembling voice, “We found the poet dead in the palace garden.”
Then the Emir rose and hastened sorrowfully to the palace garden, preceded by his torchbearers and followed by the priests and the chiefs. At the end of the garden close by the almond and pomegranate trees, the yellow light of the torches brought the dead youth into their sight. His corpse lay upon the green grass like a withered rose.
“Look how he embraced his viol as if the two were lovers pledged to die together!” said one of the Emir’s aides.
Another one said, “He still stares, as in life, at the heart of space; he still seems to be watching the invisible movements of an unknown god among the planets.”
And the high priest addressed the Emir, saying, “Tomorrow let us bury him, as a great poet, in the shade of Ishtar’s temple, and let the townspeople march in his funeral procession, while youths sing his poems and virgins strew flowers over his sepulchre. Let it be a commemoration worthy of his genius.”
The Emir nodded his head without diverting his eyes from the young poet’s face, pale with the veil of Death. “We have neglected this pure soul when he was alive, filling the Universe with the fruit of his brilliant intellect and spreading throughout space the aromatic scent of his soul. If we do not honor him now, we will be mocked and reviled by the gods and the nymphs of the prairies and valleys.
“Bury him in this spot where he breathed his last and let his viol remain between his arms. If you wish to honor him and pay him tribute, tell your children that the Emir had neglected him and was the cause of his miserable and lonely death.” Then the monarch asked, “Where is the sage from India?” And the sage walked forth and said, “Here, oh great Prince.”
And the Emir inquired, saying, “Tell us, oh sage, will the gods ever restore me to this world as a prince and bring back the deceased poet to life? Will my spirit become incarnated in a body of a great king’s son, and will the poet’s soul transmigrate into the body of another genius? Will the sacred Law make him stand before the face of Eternity that he may compose poems of Life? Will he be restored that I may honor him and pay him tribute by showering upon him precious gifts and rewards that will enliven his heart and inspire his soul?”
And the sage answered the Emir, saying, “Whatever the soul longs for, will be attained by the spirit. Remember, oh great Prince, that the sacred Law which restores the sublimity of Spring after the passing of Winter will reinstate you a prince and him a genius poet.”
The Emir’s hopes were revived and signs of joy appeared on his face. He walked toward his palace thinking and meditating upon the words of the sage: “Whatever the soul longs for, will be attained by the spirit.”
IN CAIRO, EGYPT, THE YEAR 1912 A. D.
The full moon appeared and spread her silver garment upon the city. The Prince of the land stood at the balcony of his palace gazing at the clear sky and pondering upon the ages that have passed along the bank of the Nile. He seemed to be reviewing the processions of the nations that marched, together with Time, from the Pyramid to the palace of Abedine.
As the circle of the Prince’s thoughts widened and extended into the domain of his dreams, he looked at his boon companion sitting by his side and said, “My soul is thirsty; recite a poem for me tonight.”
And the boon companion bowed his head and began a pre-Islamic poem. But before he had recited many stanzas, the Prince interrupted him saying, “Let us hear a modern poem … a more recent one.”
And, bowing, the boon companion began to recite verses composed by a Hadramout poet. The Prince stopped him again, saying, “More recent … a more recent poem.”
The singer raised his hand and touched his forehead as if trying to recall to memory all the poems composed by contemporary poets. Then his eyes glittered, his face brightened, and he began to sing lovely verses in soothing rhythm, full of enchantment.
Intoxicated and seeming to feel the movement of hidden hands beckoning him from his palace to a distant land, the Prince fervently inquired, “Who composed these verses?” And the singer answered, “The Poet from Baalbek.”
The Poet from Baalbek is an ancient name and it brought into the Prince’s memory images of forgotten days. It awakened in the depth of his heart phantoms of remembrance, and drew before his eyes, with lines formed by the mist, a picture of a dead youth embracing his viol and surrounded by priests, chiefs, and ministers.
Like dreams dissipated by the light of Morn, the vision soon left the Prince’s eyes. He stood up and walked toward his palace with crossed arms repeating the words of Mohammed, “You were dead and He brought you back to life, and He will return you to the dead and then restore you to life. Whereupon you shall go back to Him.”
Then he looked at his boon companion and said, “We are fortunate to have the Poet from Baalbek in our land, and shall make it our paramount duty to honor and befriend him.” After a few moments worthy of silence and respect, the Prince added in a low voice, “The poet is a bird of strange moods. He descends from his lofty domain to tarry among us, singing; if we do not honor him he will unfold his wings and fly back to his dwelling place.”
The night was over, and the skies doffed their garments studded with stars, and put on raiment woven from the sinews of the rays of Morn. And the Prince’s soul swayed between the wonders and strangeness of Existence and the concealed mysteries of Life.
The Return of the Beloved
By nightfall the enemy fled with slashes of the sword and wounds of lance tips scarring their backs. Our heroes waved banners of triumph and chanted songs of victory to the cadence of their horses’ hoofs that drummed upon the stones of the valley.
The moon had already risen from behind Fam El Mizab. The mighty and lofty rocks seemed to ascend with the spirits of the people, and the forest of cedars to lie like a medal of honor upon the bosom of Lebanon.
They continued their march, and the moon shone upon their weapons. The distant caves echoed their songs of praise and victory, until they reached the foot of a slope. There they were arrested by the neighing of a horse standing among gray rocks as though carved from them.
Near the horse they found a corpse, and the earth on which he lay was stained with his blood. The leader of the troop shouted, “Show me the man’s sword and I will tell you who the owner is.”
Some of the horsemen dismounted and surrounded the dead man and then one said to the chief, “His fingers have taken too strong a hold on the hilt. It would be a shame to undo them.”
Another said, “The sword has been sheathed with escaping life that hides its metal.”
A third one added. “The blood has congealed on both the hand and the hilt and made them one piece.”
Whereupon the chief dismounted and walked to the corpse and said, “Raise his head and let the moon shine on his face so we may identify him.” The men did as ordered, and the face of the slain man appeared from behind the veil of Death showing the marks of valor and nobility. It was the face of a strong horseman, and it bespoke manhood. It was the face of a sorrowing and rejoicing man; the face of one who had met the enemy courageously and faced death smilingly; the face of a Lebanese hero who, on that day, had witnessed the triumph but had not lived to march and sing and celebrate the victory with his comrades.
As they removed the silk head-wrapper and cleaned the dust of battle from his pale face, the chief cried out, in agony, “This is the son of Assaaby, what a great loss!” And the men repeated that name, sighing. Then silence fell upon them, and their hearts, intoxicated with the wine of victory, sobered. For they had seen something greater than the glory of triumph, in the loss of a hero.
Like statues of marble they stood in that scene of dread, and their taut tongues were mute and voiceless. This is what death does to the souls of heroes. Weeping and lamentation are for women; and moans and cries for children. Nothing befits the sorrow of men of the sword save silence which grips the strong heart as the eagle’s talons grip the throat of its prey. It is that silence which rises above tears and wailing which, in its majesty, adds more awe and anguish to the misfortune; that silence which causes the soul to descend from the mountain-top into the abyss. It is the silence which proclaims the coming tempest. And when the tempest makes not its appearance, it is because the silence is stronger than the tempest.
They removed the raiment of the young hero to see where death had placed its iron claws. And the wounds appeared in his breast like speaking lips proclaiming, in the calmness of the night, the bravery of men.
The chief approached the corpse and dropped on his knees. Taking a closer look at the slain warrior, he found a scarf embroidered with gold threads tied around the arm. He recognized the hand that had spun its silk and the fingers that had woven its thread. He hid it under his raiment and withdrew slowly, hiding his stricken face with a trembling hand. Yet this trembling hand, with its might, had disjoined the heads of the enemy. Now it trembled because it had touched the edge of a scarf tied by loving fingers around the arm of a slain hero, who would return to her lifeless, borne upon the shoulders of his comrades.
While the leader’s spirit wavered, considering both the tyranny of death and the secrets of love, one of the men suggested, “Let us dig a grave for him under that oak tree so that its roots may drink from his blood and its branches may receive nourishment from his remains. It will gain strength and become immortal and stand as a sign declaring to the hills and valleys his bravery and his might.”
Another man said, “Let us carry him to the forest of the cedars and bury him by the church. There his bones will be eternally guarded by the shadow of the Cross.”
And another said, “Bury him here where his blood is mingled with the earth. And let his sword remain in his right hand; plant his lance by his side and slay his horse over his grave and let his weapons be his cheer in his solitude.”
But another objected, “Do not bury a sword stained with the enemy blood, nor slay a steed that has withstood death in the battle field. Do not leave in the wilderness weapons accustomed to action and strength, but carry them to his relatives as a great and good inheritance.”
“Let us kneel down by his side and pray the Nazarene’s prayers that God might forgive him and bless our victory,” said another.
“Let us raise him upon our shoulders and make our shields and lances a bier for him and circle again this valley of our victory singing the songs of triumph so that the lips of his wounds will smile before they are muffled by the earth of the grave,” said a comrade.
And another: “Let us mount him upon his charger and support him with the skulls of the dead enemy and gird him with his lance and bring him to the village a victor. He never yielded to death until he burdened it with the enemy’s souls.”
Another one said, “Come, let us bury him at the foot of this mountain. The echo of the caves shall be his companion and the murmur of the brook his minstrel. His bones shall rest in a wilderness where the tread of the silenced night is light and gentle.”
Another objected, “No. Do not leave him in this place, for here dwells tedium and solitude. But let us carry him to the burial-ground of the village. The spirits of our forefathers will be his comrades and will speak to him in the silenced night and relate to him tales of their wars and sagas of their glory.”
Then the chief walked to the center and motioned them to silence. He sighed and said, “Do not annoy him with memories of war or repeat to the ears of his soul, that hovers over us, the tales of swords and lances. Rather come and let us carry him calmly and silently to his birthplace, where a loving soul awaits his homecoming … a soul of a maiden awaiting his return from the battlefield. Let us return him to her so she may not be denied the sight of his face and the printing of a last kiss upon his forehead.”
So they carried him upon their shoulders and walked silently with bent heads and downcast eyes. His sorrowful horse plodded behind them dragging its reins on the ground, uttering from time to time a desolate neighing echoed by the caves as if those caves had hearts and shared their grief.
Through the thorny path of the valley illuminated by a full moon, the procession of victory walked behind the cavalcade of Death and the spirit of Love led the way dragging his broken wings.
Union
In this poem the prophet of Lebanon appears to have previsioned the union of Egypt and Syria.
When the night had embellished heaven’s garment with the stars’ gems, there rose a houri from the Valley of the Nile and hovered in the sky on invisible wings. She sat upon a throne of mist hung between heaven and the sea. Before her passed a host of angels chanting in unison, “Holy, holy, holy the daughter of Egypt whose grandeur fills the globe.”
Then on the summit of Fam el Mizab, girdled by the forest of the cedars, a phantom youth was raised by the hands of the seraphim, and he sat upon the throne beside the houri. The spirits circled them singing, “Holy, holy, holy the youth of Lebanon, whose magnificence fills the ages.”
And when the suitor held the hands of his beloved and gazed into her eyes, the wave and wind carried their communion to all the universe:
How faultless is your radiance, Oh daughter of Isis, and how great my adoration for you!
How graceful you are among the youths, Oh son of Astarte, and how great my yearning for you!
My love is as strong as your Pyramids, and the ages shall not destroy it.
&
nbsp; My love is as staunch as your Holy Cedars, and the elements shall not prevail over it.
The wise men of all the nations come from East and West to discern your wisdom and to interpret your signs.
The scholars of the world come from all the kingdoms to intoxicate themselves with the nectar of your beauty and the magic of your voice.
Your palms are fountains of abundance.
Your arms are springs of pure water, and your breath is a refreshing breeze.
The palaces and temples of the Nile announce your glory, and the Sphinx narrates your greatness.
The cedars upon your bosom are like a medal of honor, and the towers about you speak your bravery and might.
Oh how sweet is your love and how wonderful is the hope that you foster.
Oh what a generous partner you are, and how faithful a spouse you have proved to be. How sublime are your gifts, and how precious your sacrifice!
You sent to me young men who were as an awakening after deep slumber. You gave me men of daring to conquer the weakness of my people, and scholars to exalt them, and geniuses to enrich their powers.
From the seeds I sent you you wrought flowers; from saplings you raised trees. For you are a virgin meadow on which roses and lilies grow and the cypresses and the cedar trees rise.
I see sorrow in your eyes, my beloved; do you grieve while you are at my side?
I have sons and daughters who emigrated beyond the seas and left me weeping and longing for their return.
Are you afraid, oh daughter of the Nile, and dearest of all nations?
Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran Page 36