The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

  “In the wretched huts standing in the shadow of poverty and oppression, they beat at their bosoms, soliciting thy mercy; watch us, Oh Liberty, and have mercy on us. In the pathways and in the houses miserable youth calls thee; in the churches and the mosques, the forgotten Book turns to thee; in the courts and in the palaces the neglected Law appeals to thee. Have mercy on us, Oh Liberty, and save us. In our narrow streets the merchant sells his days in order to make tribute to the exploiting thieves of the West, and none would give him advice. In the barren fields the fellah tills the soil and sows the seeds of his heart and nourishes them with his tears, but he reaps naught except thorns, and none would teach him the true path. In our arid plains the Bedouin roams barefoot and hungry, but none would have mercy on him; speak, Oh Liberty, and teach us! Our sick lambs are grazing upon the grassless prairie, our calves are gnawing on the roots of the trees, and our horses are feeding on dry plants. Come, Oh Liberty, and help us. We have been living in darkness since the beginning, and like prisoners they take us from one prison to another, while time ridicules our plight. When will dawn come? Until when shall we bear the scorn of the ages? Many a stone have we been dragging, and many a yoke has been placed upon our necks. Until when shall we bear this human outrage? The Egyptian slavery, the Babylonian exile, the tyranny of Persia, the despotism of the Romans, and the greed of Europe … all these things we have suffered. Where are we going now, and when shall we reach the sublime end of the rough roadway? From the clutches of Pharaoh to the paws of Nebuchadnezzar, to the iron hands of Alexander, to the swords of Herod, to the talons of Nero, and the sharp teeth of Demon … into whose hands are we now to fall, and when will Death come and take us, so we may rest at last?

  “With the strength of our arms we lifted the columns of the temple, and upon our backs we carried the mortar to build the great walls and the impregnable pyramids for the sake of glory. Until when shall we continue building such magnificent palaces and living in wretched huts? Until when shall we continue filling the bins of the rich with provisions, while sustaining weak life on dry morsels? Until when shall we continue weaving silk and wool for our lords and masters while we wear naught except tattered swaddles?

  “Through their wickedness we were divided amongst ourselves; and the better to keep their thrones and be at ease, they armed the Druze to fight the Arab, and stirred up the Shiite to attack the Sunnite, and encouraged the Kurdish to butcher the Bedouin, and cheered the Mohammedan to dispute with the Christian. Until when shall a brother continue killing his own brother upon his mother’s bosom? Until when shall the Cross be kept apart from the Crescent * before the eyes of God? Oh Liberty, hear us, and speak in behalf of but one individual, for a great fire is started with a small spark. Oh Liberty, awaken but one heart with the rustling of thy wings, for from one cloud alone comes the lightning which illuminates the pits of the valleys and the tops of the mountains. Disperse with thy power these black clouds and descend like thunder and destroy the thrones that were built upon the bones and skulls of our ancestors.”

  “Hear us, Oh Liberty;

  Bring mercy, Oh Daughter of Athens;

  Rescue us, Oh Sister of Rome;

  Advise us, Oh Companion of Moses;

  Help us, Oh Beloved of Mohammed;

  Teach us, Oh Bride of Jesus;

  Strengthen our hearts so we may live,

  Or harden our enemies so we may perish

  And live in peace eternally.”

  As Khalil was pouring forth his sentiment before heaven, the villagers were gazing at him in reverence, and their love was springing forth in unison with the song of his voice until they felt that he became part of their hearts. After a short silence, Khalil brought his eyes upon the multitude and quietly said, “Night has brought us to the house of Sheik Abbas in order to realize the daylight; oppression nas arrested us before the cold Space, so we may understand one another and gather like chicks under the wings of the Eternal Spirit. Now let us go to our homes and sleep until we meet again tomorrow.”

  Having thus spoken, he walked away, following Rachel and Miriam to their poor hovel. The throng departed and each went to his home, contemplating what he had seen and heard that memorable night. They felt that a burning torch of a new spirit had scoured their inner selves and led them into the right path. In an hour all the lamps were extinguished and Silence engulfed the whole village while Slumber carried the fellahin’s souls into the world of strong dreams; but Sheik Abbas found no sleep all night, as he watched the phantoms of darkness and the horrible ghosts of his crimes in procession.

  * The crescent is the emblem of the Mohammedan flag, flown over Svria during the Turkish rule. (Editor’s note.)

  PART EIGHT

  Two months had already passed and Khalil was still preaching and pouring his sentiments in the villagers’ hearts, reminding them of their usurped rights and showing them the greed and oppression of the rulers and the monks. They listened to him with care, for he was a source of pleasure; his words fell upon their hearts like rain upon thirsty land. In their solitude, they repeated Khalil’s sayings as they did their daily prayers. Father Elias commenced fawning upon them to regain their friendship; he became docile since the villagers found out that he was the Sheik’s ally in crime, and the fellahin ignored him.

  Sheik Abbas had a nervous suffering, and walked through his mansion like a caged tiger. He issued commands to his servants, but no one answered except the echo of his voice inside the marble walls. He shouted at his men, but no one came to his aid except his poor wife who suffered the pang of his cruelty as much as the villagers did. When Lent came and Heaven announced the coming of Spring, the days of the Sheik expired with the passing of Winter. He died after a long agony, and his soul was carried away on the carpet of his deeds to stand naked and shivering before that high Throne whose existence we feel, but cannot see. The fellahin heard various tales about the manner of Sheik Abbas’ death; some of them related that the Sheik died insane, while others insisted that disappointment and despair drove him to death by his own hand. But the women who went to offer their sympathies to his wife reported that he died from fear, because the ghost of Samaan Ramy hunted him and drove him every midnight out to the place where Rachel’s husband was found slain six years before.

  The month of Nisan proclaimed to the villagers the love secrets of Khalil and Miriam. They rejoiced the good tidings which assured them that Khalil would thereby remain in their village. As the news reached all the inhabitants of the huts, they congratulated one another upon Khalil’s becoming their beloved neighbour.

  When harvest time came, the fellahin went to the fields and gathered the sheaves of corn and bundles of wheat to the threshing floor. Sheik Abbas was not there to take the crop and have it carried to his bins. Each fellah harvested his own crop; the villagers’ huts where filled with wheat and corn; their vessels were replenished with good wine and oil. Khalil shared with them their toils and happiness; he helped them in gathering the crop, pressing the grapes and picking the fruits. He never distinguished himself from any one of them except by his excess of love and ambition. Since that year and up to our present time, each fellah in that village commenced to reap with joy the crop which he sowed with toil and labour. The land which the fellahin tilled and the vineyards they cultivated became their own property.

  Now, half a century has passed since this incident, and the Lebanese have awakened.

  On his way to the Holy Cedars of Lebanon, a traveller’s attention is caught by the beauty of that village, standing like a bride at the side of the valley. The wretched huts are now comfortable and happy homes surrounded by fertile fields and blooming orchards. If you ask any one of the residents about Sheik Abbas’ history, he will answer you, pointing with his finger to a heap of demolished stones and destroyed walls saying, “This is the Sheik’s palace, and this is the history of his life.” And if you inquire about Khalil, he will raise his hand toward heaven saying, “There resides our beloved Khalil, whose life’s hi
story was written by God with glittering letters upon the pages of our hearts, and they cannot be effaced by the ages.”

  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 of 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.

  YOUTH AND BEAUTY

  BEAUTY belongs to youth, but the youth for whom this earth was made is naught but a dream whose sweetness is enslaved to a blindness that renders its awareness too late. Will ever the day come when the wise will band together the sweet dreams of youth and the joy of knowledge? Each is but naught when in solitary existence. Will ever the day come when Nature will be the teacher of man, and Humanity his book of devotions, and Life his daily school?

  Youth’s purpose of joy—capable in its ecstasy and mild in its responsibility—cannot seek fulfillment until knowledge heralds the dawn of that day.

  Many are the men who curse with venom the dead days of their youth; many are the women who execrate their wasted years with the fury of the lioness who has lost her cubs; and many are the youths and maidens who are using their hearts only to sheath the daggers of the bitter memories of the future, wounding themselves through ignorance with the sharp and poisoned arrows of seclusion from happiness.

  Old age is the snow of the earth; it must, through light and truth, give warmth to the seeds of youth below, protecting them and fulfilling their purpose until Nisan comes and completes the growing pure life of youth with new awakening.

  We are walking too slowly toward the awakening of our spiritual elevation, and only that plane, as endless as the firmament, is the understanding of the beauty of existence through our affection and love for that beauty.

  SONG OF LOVE

  IAM the lover’s eyes, and the spirit’s

  Wine, and the heart’s nourishment.

  I am a rose. My heart opens at dawn and

  The virgin kisses me and places me

  Upon her breast.

  I am the house of true fortune, and the

  Origin of pleasure, and the beginning

  Of peace and tranquility. I am the gentle

  Smile upon the lips of beauty. When youth

  Overtakes me he forgets his toil, and his

  Whole life becomes reality of sweet dreams.

  I am the poet’s elation,

  And the artist’s revelation,

  And the musician’s inspiration.

  I am a sacred shrine in the heart of a

  Child, adored by a merciful mother.

  I appear to a heart’s cry; I shun a demand;

  My fullness pursues the heart’s desire;

  It shuns the empty claim of the voice.

  I appeared to Adam through Eve

  And exile was his lot;

  Yet I revealed myself to Solomon, and

  He drew wisdom from my presence.

  I smiled at Helena and she destroyed Tarwada;

  Yet I crowned Cleopatra and peace dominated

  The Valley of the Nile.

  I am like the ages—building today

  And destroying tomorrow;

  I am like a god, who creates and ruins;

  I am sweeter than a violet’s sigh;

  I am more violent than a raging tempest.

  Gifts alone do not entice me;

  Parting does not discourage me;

  Poverty does not chase me;

  Jealousy does not prove my awareness;

  Madness does not evidence my presence.

  Oh seekers, I am Truth, beseeching Truth;

  And your Truth in seeking and receiving

  And protecting me shall determine my

  Behaviour.

  CONTEMPLATIONS IN SADNESS

  FATE CARRIED me by the painful current of modern, narrow civilization, taking me from between the arms of Nature in her cool green arbour, and placing me roughly under the feet of the throngs, where I fell as suffering prey to the tortures of the city.

  No punishment more severe has befallen a child of God; no exile so bitter has become the lot of one who loves one blade of the earth’s grass with a fervency that causes every fibre of his being to tremble; no confinement imposed upon a criminal has approached in closeness the misery of my imprisonment, for the narrow walls of my cell are bruising my heart.

  We may be wealthier than the villagers in gold, but they are infinitely richer in fullness of true existence. We sow in plenty, but reap naught; they reap the glorious bounty awarded by Nature to the diligent children of God. We calculate every barter with slyness; they take Nature’s products with honesty and peace. We sleep fitfully, seeing spectres of the morrow; they sleep as a child upon its mother’s bosom, knowing that Nature will never refuse her accustomed yield.

  We are the slaves of gain; they are the masters of contentment. We drink bitterness and despair and fear and weariness from the cup of life; they drink the purest nectar of God’s blessings.

  Oh, Giver of Graces, hidden from me behind these edifices of the throngs which are naught but idols and images … hear the anguished cries of my imprisoned soul! Hear the agonies of my bursting heart! Have mercy and return Your straying child to the mountainside, which is Thy edifice!

  THE CRY OF THE GRAVES

  PART ONE

  THE EMIR walked into the court room and took the central chair while at his right and left sat the wise men of the country. The guards, armed with swords and spears, stood in attention, and the people who cam
e to witness the trial rose and bowed ceremoniously to the Emir whose eyes emanated a power that revealed horror to their spirits and fear to their hearts. As the court came to order and the hour of judgment approached, the Emir raised his hand and shouted saying, “Bring forth the criminals singly and tell me what crimes they have committed.” The prison door opened like the mouth of a ferocious yawning beast. In the obscure corners of the dungeon one could hear the echo of shackles rattling in unison with the moaning and lamentations of the prisoners. The spectators were eager to see the prey of Death emerging from the depths of that inferno. A few moments later, two soldiers came out leading a young man with his arms pinioned behind his back. His stern face bespoke nobility of spirit and strength of the heart. He was halted in the middle of the court room and the soldiers marched a few steps to the rear. The Emir stared at him steadily and said, “What crime has this man, who is proudly and triumphantly standing before me, committed?” One of the courtmen responded, “He is a murderer; yesterday he slew one of the Emir’s officers who was on an important mission in the surrounding villages; he was still grasping the bloody sword when he was arrested.” The Emir retorted with anger, “Return the man to the dark prison and tie him with heavy chains, and at dawn cut off his head with his own sword and throw his body in the woods so that the beasts may eat the flesh, and the air may carry its remindful odor into the noses of his family and friends.” The youth was returned to prison while the people looked upon him with sorrowful eyes, for he was a young man in the spring of life.