The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

  My birthplace and all humans are

  My brothers.

  Go from me, for you are taking away

  Life-giving repentance and bringing

  Needless words.

  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.

  “I am the lost human heart, imprisoned in the foul dungeon of man’s dictates, tied with chains of earthly authority, dead and forgotten by laughing humanity whose tongue is tied and whose eyes are empty of visible tears.”

  All these words I heard, and I saw them emerging with a stream of ever-thinning blood from that wounded heart.

  More was said, but my misted eyes and crying soul prevented further sight or hearing.

  SONG OF THE FLOWER

  IAM 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 beautiful 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.

  SOCIETY

  THE SUFFERINGS of the multitudes are as the agonies of gnawing pain, and in the mouth of society there are many decayed and ailing teeth. But society declines the careful and patient remedy, satisfying itself with polishing the exteriors and stuffing them with resplendent, glittering gold that blinds the eye to the decay beyond. But the patient cannot blind himself to the continuing pain.

  Many are the social dentists who endeavour to administer to the evils of the world, offering fillings of beauty, and many are the sufferers who yield to the will of the reformers and thereby increase their own suffering, draw deeper of their waning strength, and deceive themselves more surely into the abyss of death.

  The decayed teeth of Syria are found in her schools, wherein today’s youth is taught to be tomorrow’s sorrow; and in her courts of justice, wherein the judges twist and play with the law as a tiger plays with its prey; and in the palaces, wherein false-hood and hypocrisy prevail; and in the huts of the poor, wherein fear, ignorance, and cowardice abide

  The political dentists of soft fingers pour honey into the ears of the people, shouting that they are filling the crevices of the nation’s weakness. Their song is made to sound higher than the sound of the grinding millstone, but in truth it is no nobler than the croaking of the frogs in the stagnant marsh.

  Many are the thinkers and idealists in this world of emptiness … and how faint are their dreams!

  SONG OF MAN

  IWAS HERE from the moment of the

  Beginning, and here I am still. And

  I shall remain here until the end

  Of the world, for there is no

  Ending to my grief-stricken being.

  I roamed the infinite sky, and

  Soared in the ideal world, and

  Floated through the firmament. But

  Here I am, prisoner of measurement.

  I heard the teachings of Confucius;

  I listened to Brahma’s wisdom;

  I sat by Buddha under the Tree of Knowledge.

  Yet here am I, existing with ignorance

  And heresy.

  I was on Sinai when Jehovah approached Moses;

  I saw the Nazarene’s miracles at the Jordan;

  I was in Medina when Mohammed visited.

  Yet here I am, prisoner of bewilderment.

  Then I witnessed the might of Babylon;

  I learned of the glory of Egypt;

  I viewed the warring greatness of Rome.

  Yet my earlier teachings showed the

  Weakness and sorrow of those achievements.

  I conversed with the magicians of Ain Dour;

  I debated with the priests of Assyria;

  I gleaned depth from the prophets of Palestine.

  Yet, I am still seeking the truth.

  I gathered wisdom from quiet India;

  I probed the antiquity of Arabia;

  I heard all that can be heard.

  Yet, my heart is deaf and blind.

  I suffered at the hands of despotic rulers;

  I suffered slavery under insane invaders;

  I suffered hunger imposed by tyranny;

  Yet, I still possess some inner power

  With which I struggle to greet each day.

  My mind is filled, but my heart is empty;

  My body is old, but my heart is an infant.

  Perhaps in youth my heart will grow, but I

  Pray to grow old and reach the moment of

  My return to God. Only then will my heart fill!

  I was here from the moment of the

  Beginning, and here I am still. And

  I shall remain here until the end

  Of the world, for there is no

  Ending to my grief-stricken being.

  KHALIL THE HERETIC

  PART ONE

  SHEIK ABBAS was looked upon as a prince by the people of a solitary village in North Lebanon. His mansion stood in the midst of those poor villagers’ huts like a healthy giant amidst sickly dwarfs. He lived amid luxury while they pursued an existence of penury. They obeyed him and bowed reverently before him as he spoke to them. It seemed as though the power of mind had appointed him its official interpreter and spokesman. His anger would make them tremble and scatter like autumn leaves before a strong wind. If he were to slap one’s face, it would be heresy on the individual’s part to move or lift his head or make any attempt to discover why the blow had come. If he smiled at a man, the villagers would consider the person thus honoured as the
most fortunate. The people’s fear and surrender to Sheik Abbas were not due to weakness; however, their poverty and need of him had brought about this state of continual humiliation. Even the huts they lived in and the fields they cultivated were owned by Sheik Abbas who had inherited them from his ancestors.

  The farming of the land and the sowing of the seeds and the gathering of wheat were all done under the supervision of the Sheik who, in reward for their toil, compensated them with a small portion of the crop which barely kept them from falling as victims of gnawing starvation.

  Often many of them were in need of bread before the crop was reaped, and they came to Sheik Abbas and asked him with pouring tears to advance them a few piastres or a bushel of wheat, and the Sheik gladly granted their request for he knew that they would pay their debts doubly when harvest time came. Thus those people remained obligated all their lives, left a legacy of debts to their children and were submissive to their master whose anger they had always feared and whose friendship and good will they had constantly but unsuccessfully endeavoured to win.

  PART TWO

  Winter came and brought heavy snow and strong winds; the valleys and the fields became empty of all things except leafless trees which stood as spectres of death above the lifeless plains.

  Having stored the products of the land in the Sheik’s bins and filled his vases with the wine of the vineyards, the villagers retreated to their huts to spend a portion of their lives idling by the fireside and commemorating the glory of the past ages and relating to one another the tales of weary days and long nights.

  The old year had just breathed its last into the grey sky. The night had arrived during which the New Year would be crowned and placed upon the throne of the Universe. The snow began to fall heavily and the whistling winds were racing from the lofty mountains down to the abyss and blowing the snow into heaps to be stored away in the valleys.

  The trees were shaking under the heavy storms and the fields and knolls were covered with a white floor upon which Death was writing vague lines and effacing them. The mists stood as partitions between the scattered villages by the sides of the valleys. The lights that flickered through the windows of those wretched huts disappeared behind the thick veil of Nature’s wrath.

  Fear penetrated the fellahin’s hearts and the animals stood by their mangers in the sheds, while the dogs were hiding in the corners. One could hear the voices of the screaming winds and thundering of the storms resounding from the depths of the valleys. It seemed as if Nature were enraged by the passing of the old year and trying to wrest revenge from those peaceful souls by fighting with weapons of cold and frost.

  That night under the raging sky, a young man was attempting to walk the winding trail that connected Deir Kizhaya * with Sheik Abbas’ village. The youth’s limbs were numbed with cold, while pain and hunger usurped him of his strength. The black raiment he wore was bleached with the falling snow, as if he were shrouded in death before the hour of his death had come. He was struggling against the wind. His progress was difficult, and he took but a few steps forward with each effort. He called for help and then stood silent, shivering in the cold night. He had slim hope, withering between great despair and deep sorrow. He was like a bird with a broken wing, who fell in a stream whose whirlpools carried him down to the depths.

  The young man continued walking and falling until his blood stopped circulating and he collapsed. He uttered a terrible sound … the voice of a soul who encountered the hollow face of Death … a voice of dying youth, weakened by man and trapped by nature … a voice of the love of existence in the space of nothingness.

  * One of the richest and most famous convents in Lebanon. Kizhaya is a Syriac word meaning “Paradise of Life.” (Editor’s note.)

  PART THREE

  On the north side of that village, in the midst of the wind-torn fields, stood the solitary home of a woman named Rachel, and her daughter Miriam who had not then attained the age of eighteen. Rachel was the widow of Samaan Ramy, who was found slain six years earlier, but the law of man did not find the murderer.

  Like the rest of the Lebanese widows, Rachel sustained life through long, hard work. During the harvest season, she would look for ears of corn left behind by others in the field, and in Autumn she gathered the remnants of some forgotten fruits in the gardens. In Winter she spun wool and made raiment for which she received a few piastres or a bushel of grain. Miriam, her daughter, was a beautiful girl who shared with her mother the burden of toil.

  That bitter night the two women were sitting by the fireplace whose warmth was weakened by the frost and whose firebrands were buried beneath the ashes. By their side was a flickering lamp that sent its yellow, dimmed rays into the heart of darkness like prayer that sends phantoms of hope into the hearts of the sorrowful.

  Midnight had come and they were listening to the wailing winds outside. Every now and then Miriam would get up, open the small transom and look toward the obscured sky, and then she would return to her chair worried and frightened by the raging elements. Suddenly Miriam started, as if she had awakened from a swoon of deep slumber. She looked anxiously toward her mother and said, “Did you hear that, Mother? Did you hear a voice calling for help?” The mother listened a moment and said, “I hear nothing except the crying wind, my daughter.” Then Miriam exclaimed, “I heard a voice deeper than the thundering heaven and more sorrowful than the wailing of the tempest.”

  Having uttered these words, she stood up and opened the door and listened for a moment. Then she said, “I hear it again, Mother!” Rachel hurried toward the frail door and after a moment’s hesitation she said, “And I hear it, too. Let us go and see.”

  She wrapped herself with a long robe, opened the door and walked out cautiously, while Miriam stood at the door, the wind blowing her long hair.

  Having forced her way a short distance through the snow, Rachel stopped and shouted out, “Who is calling … where are you?” There was no answer; then she repeated the same words again and again, but she heard naught except thunder. Then she courageously advanced forward, looking in every direction. She had walked for some time, when she found some deep footprints upon the snow; she followed them fearfully and in a few moments found a human body lying before her on the snow, like a patch on a white dress. As she approached him and leaned his head over her knees, she felt his pulse that bespoke his slowing heart beats and his slim chance in life. She turned her face toward the hut and called, “Come, Miriam, come and help me, I have found him!” Miriam rushed out and followed her mother’s footprints, while shivering with cold and trembling with fear. As she reached the place and saw the youth lying motionless, she cried with an aching voice. The mother put her hands under his armpits, calmed Miriam and said, “Fear not, for he is still living; hold the lower edge of his cloak and let us carry him home.”

  Confronted with the strong wind and heavy snow, the two women carried the youth and started toward the hut. As they reached the little haven, they laid him down by the fireplace. Rachel commenced rubbing his numbed hands and Miriam drying his hair with the end of her dress. The youth began to move after a few minutes. His eyelids quivered and he took a deep sigh—a sigh that brought the hope of his safety into the hearts of the merciful women. They removed his shoes and took off his black robe. Miriam looked at her mother and said, “Observe his raiment, Mother; these clothes are worn by the monks.” After feeding the fire with a bundle of dry sticks, Rachel looked at her daughter with perplexity and said, “The monks do not leave their convent on such a terrible night.” And Miriam inquired, “But he has no hair on his face; the monks wear beards.” The mother gazed at him with eyes full of mercy and maternal love; then she turned to her daughter and said, “It makes no difference whether he is a monk or a criminal; dry his feet well, my daughter.” Rachel opened a closet, took from it a jar of wine and poured some in an earthenware bowl. Miriam held his head while the mother gave him some of it to stimulate his heart. As he sipped the wine he opened his e
yes for the first time and gave his rescuers a sorrowful look mingled with tears of gratitude—the look of a human who felt the smooth touch of life after having been gripped in the sharp claws of death—a look of great hope after hope had died. Then he bent his head, and his lips trembled when he uttered the words, “May God bless both of you.” Rachel placed her hand upon his shoulder and said, “Be calm, brother. Do not tire yourself with talking until you gain strength.” And Miriam added, “Rest your head on this pillow, brother, and we will place you closer to the fire.” Rachel refilled the bowl with wine and gave it to him. She looked at her daughter and said, “Hang his robe by the fire so it will dry.” Having executed her mother’s command, she returned and commenced looking at him mercifully, as if she wanted to help him by pouring into his heart all the warmth of her soul. Rachel brought two loaves of bread with some preserves and dry fruits; she sat by him and began to feed him small morsels, as a mother feeds her little child. At this time he felt stronger and sat up on the hearth mat while the red flames of fire reflected upon his sad face. His eyes brightened and he shook his head slowly, saying, “Mercy and cruelty are both wrestling in the human heart like the mad elements in the sky of this terrible night, but mercy shall overcome cruelty because it is divine, and the terror alone, of this night, shall pass away when daylight comes.” Silence prevailed for a minute and then he added with a whispering voice, “A human hand drove me into desperation and a human hand rescued me; how severe man is, and how merciful man is!” And Rachel inquired, “How ventured you, brother, to leave the convent on such a terrible night, when even the beasts do not venture forth?”

  The youth shut his eyes as if he wanted to restore his tears back into the depths of his heart, whence they came, and he said, “The animals have their caves, and the birds of the sky their nests, but the son of man has no place to rest his head.” Rachel retorted, “That is what Jesus said about himself.” And the young man resumed, “This is the answer for every man who wants to follow the Spirit and the Truth in this age of falsehood, hypocrisy and corruption.”