The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

  He suddenly became silent, as if remembering something he had seen long before, refusing to reveal it. Then he stretched his arms forward and whispered, “That is what happened to me four years ago, when I left the world and came to this void place to live in the awakeness of life and enjoy kind thoughts and beautiful silence.”

  He walked toward the door, looking at the depths of the darkness as if preparing to address the tempest. But he spoke in a vibrating voice, saying, “It is an awakening within the spirit; he who knows it, is unable to reveal it by words; and he who knows it not, will never think upon the compelling and beautiful mystery of existence.”

  PART FOUR

  An hour had passed and Yusif El Fakhri was striding about the room, stopping at random and gazing at the tremendous grey skies. I remained silent, reflecting upon the strange unison of joy and sorrow in his solitary life.

  Later in the night he approached me and stared long into my face, as if wanting to commit to memory the picture of the man to whom he had disclosed the piercing secrets of his life. My mind was heavy with turmoil, my eyes with mist. He said quietly, “I am going now to walk through the night with the tempest, to feel the closeness of Nature’s expression; it is a practise that I enjoy greatly in Autumn and Winter. Here is the wine, and there is the tobacco; please accept my home as your own for the night.”

  He wrapped himself in a black robe and added smilingly, “I beg you to fasten the door against the intruding humans when you leave in the morning, for I plan to spend the day in the forest of the Holy Cedars.” Then he walked toward the door, carrying a long walking staff and he concluded, “If the tempest surprises you again while you are in this vicinity, do not hesitate to take refuge in this hermitage.… I hope you will teach yourself to love, and not to fear, the tempest.… Good night, my brother.”

  He opened the door and walked out with his head high, into the dark. I stood at the door to see which course he had taken, but he had disappeared from view. For a few minutes I heard the fall of his feet upon the broken stones of the valley.

  PART FIVE

  Morning came, after a night of deep thought, and the tempest had passed away, while the sky was clear and the mountains and the plains were reveling in the sun’s warm rays. On my way back to the city I felt that spiritual awakening of which Yusif El Fakhri had spoken, and it was raging throughout every fibre of my being. I felt that my shivering must be visible. And when I calmed, all about me was beauty and perfection.

  As soon as I reached the noisome people and heard their voices and saw their deeds, I stopped and said within myself, “Yes, the spiritual awakening is the most essential thing in man’s life, and it is the sole purpose of being. Is not civilization, in all its tragic forms, a supreme motive for spiritual awakening? Then how can we deny existing matter, while its very existence is unwavering proof of its conform-ability into the intended fitness? The present civilization may possess a vanishing purpose, but the eternal law has offered to that purpose a ladder whose steps can lead to a free substance.”

  I never saw Yusif El Fakhri again, for through my endeavours to attend the ills of civilization, Life had expelled me from North Lebanon in late Autumn of that same year, and I was required to live in exile in a distant country whose tempests are domestic. And leading a hermit’s life in that country is a sort of glorious madness, for its society, too, is ailing.

  THE LIFE OF LOVE

  SPRING

  COME, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls,

  For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its

  Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.

  Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the

  Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw

  Inspiration high above the cool green plains.

  Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment

  And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and

  They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of

  The Night of Kedre.

  The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like

  Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance

  Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy;

  And the flowers bud suddenly from the heart of

  Nature, like foam from the rich heart of the sea.

  Come, my beloved; let us drink the last of Winter’s

  Tears from the cupped lilies, and soothe our spirits

  With the shower of notes from the birds, and wander

  In exhilaration through the intoxicating breeze.

  Let us sit by that rock, where violets hide; let us

  Pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.

  SUMMER

  Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the

  Time of harvest approaches, and the sun’s eyes

  Are ripening the grain.

  Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the

  Spirit nourishes the grains of Joy from the

  Seeds of Love, sowed deep in our hearts.

  Let us fill our bins with the products of

  Nature, as life fills so abundantly the

  Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.

  Let us make the flowers our bed, and the

  Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together

  Upon pillows of soft hay.

  Let us relax after the day’s toil, and listen

  To the provoking murmur of the brook.

  AUTUMN

  Let us go and gather the grapes of the vineyard

  For the winepress, and keep the wine in old

  Vases, as the spirit keeps Knowledge of the

  Ages in eternal vessels.

  Let us return to our dwelling, for the wind has

  Caused the yellow leaves to fall and shroud the

  Withering flowers that whisper elegy to Summer.

  Come home, my eternal sweetheart, for the birds

  Have made pilgrimage to warmth and left the chilled

  Prairies suffering pangs of solitude. The jasmine

  And myrtle have no more tears.

  Let us retreat, for the tired brook has

  Ceased its song; and the bubblesome springs

  Are drained of their copious weeping; and

  The cautious old hills have stored away

  Their colourful garments.

  Come, my beloved; Nature is justly weary

  And is bidding her enthusiasm farewell

  With quiet and contented melody.

  WINTER

  Come close to me, oh companion of my full life;

  Come close to me and let not Winter’s touch

  Enter between us. Sit by me before the hearth,

  For fire is the only fruit of Winter.

  Speak to me of the glory of your heart, for

  That is greater than the shrieking elements

  Beyond our door.

  Bind the door and seal the transoms, for the

  Angry countenance of the heaven depresses my

  Spirit, and the face of our snow-laden fields

  Makes my soul cry.

  Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and

  Place it by you, so I can read with tears what

  Your life with me has written upon your face.

  Bring Autumn’s wine. Let us drink and sing the

  Song of remembrance to Spring’s carefree sowing,

  And Summer’s watchful tending, and Autumn’s

  Reward in harvest.

  Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the

  Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.

  Embrace me, for I fear loneliness; the lamp is

  Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing

  Our eyes. Let us look upon each other before

  They are shut.

  Find me with your arms and embrace me; let

  Slumber then embrace our souls as one.

  Kiss me, my beloved, for Winter has stolen

  All but our m
oving lips.

  You are close by me, My Forever.

  How deep and wide will be the ocean of Slumber;

  And how recent was the dawn!

  THE CITY OF THE DEAD

  YESTERDAY I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded into the field until I reached a knoll upon which Nature had spread her comely garments. Now I could breathe.

  I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificent mosques and stately residences veiled by the smoke of the shops.

  I commenced analyzing man’s mission, but could conclude only that most of his life was identified with struggle and hardship. Then I tried not to ponder over what the sons of Adam had done, and centered my eyes on the field which is the throne of God’s glory. In one secluded corner of the field I observed a burying ground surrounded by poplar trees.

  There, between the city of the dead and the city of the living, I meditated. I thought of the eternal silence in the first and the endless sorrow in the second.

  In the city of the living I found hope and despair, love and hatred, joy and sorrow, wealth and poverty, faith and infidelity.

  In the city of the dead there is buried earth in earth that Nature converts, in the night’s silence, into vegetation, and then into animal, and then into man. As my mind wandered in this fashion, I saw a procession moving slowly and reverently, accompanied by pieces of music that filled the sky with sad melody. It was an elaborate funeral. The dead was followed by the living who wept and lamented his going. As the cortege reached the place of interment the priests commenced praying and burning incense, and the musicians blowing and plucking their instruments, mourning the departed. Then the leaders came forward one after the other and recited their eulogies with fine choice of words.

  At last the multitude departed, leaving the dead resting in a most spacious and beautiful vault, expertly designed in stone and iron, and surrounded by the most expensively-entwined wreaths of flowers.

  The farewell-bidders returned to the city and I remained, watching them from a distance and speaking softly to myself while the sun was descending to the horizon and Nature was making her many preparations for slumber.

  Then I saw two men labouring under the weight of a wooden casket, and behind them a shabby-appearing woman carrying an infant on her arms. Following last was a dog who, with heartbreaking eyes, stared first at the woman and then at the casket.

  It was a poor funeral. This guest of Death left to cold society a miserable wife and an infant to share her sorrows, and a faithful dog whose heart knew of his companion’s departure.

  As they reached the burial place they deposited the casket into a ditch away from the tended shrubs and marble stones, and retreated after a few simple words to God. The dog made one last turn to look at his friend’s grave as the small group disappeared behind the trees.

  I looked at the city of the living and said to myself, “That place belongs to the few.” Then I looked upon the trim city of the dead and said, “That place, too, belongs to the few. Oh Lord, where is the haven of all people?”

  As I said this, I looked toward the clouds, mingled with the sun’s longest and most beautiful golden rays. And I heard a voice within me saying, “Over there!”

  SONG OF FORTUNE

  MAN and I are sweethearts

  He craves me and I long for him,

  But alas! Between us has appeared

  A rival who brings us misery.

  She is cruel and demanding,

  Possessing empty lure.

  Her name is Substance.

  She follows wherever we go

  And watches like a sentinel, bringing

  Restlessness to my lover.

  I ask for my beloved in the forest,

  Under the trees, by the lakes.

  I cannot find him, for Substance

  Has spirited him to the clamourous

  City and placed him on the throne

  Of quaking, metal riches.

  I call for him with the voice of

  Knowledge and the song of Wisdom.

  He does not hearken, for Substance

  Has enticed him into the dungeon

  Of selfishness, where avarice dwells.

  I seek him in the field of Contentment,

  But I am alone, for my rival has

  Imprisoned him in the cave of gluttony

  And greed, and locked him there

  With painful chains of gold.

  I call to him at dawn, when Nature smiles,

  But he does not hear, for excess has

  Laden his drugged eyes with sick slumber.

  I beguile him at eventide, when Silence rule.

  And the flowers sleep. But he responds not,

  For his fear over what the morrow will

  Bring, shadows his thoughts.

  He yearns to love me;

  He asks for me in his own acts. But he

  Will find me not except in God’s acts.

  He seeks me in the edifices of his glory

  Which he has built upon the bones of others;

  He whispers to me from among

  His heaps of gold and silver;

  But he will find me only by coming to

  The house of Simplicity which God has built

  At the brink of the stream of affection.

  He desires to kiss me before his coffers,

  But his lips will never touch mine except

  In the richness of the pure breeze.

  He asks me to share with him his

  Fabulous wealth, but I will not forsake God’s

  Fortune; I will not cast off my cloak of beauty.

  He seeks deceit for medium; I seek only

  The medium of his heart.

  He bruises his heart in his narrow cell;

  I would enrich his heart with my love.

  My beloved has learned how to shriek and

  Cry for my enemy, Substance; I would

  Teach him how to shed tears of affection

  And mercy from the eyes of his soul

  For all things,

  And utter sighs of contentment through

  Those tears.

  Man is my sweetheart;

  I want to belong to him.

  SATAN

  THE PEOPLE looked upon Father Samaan as their guide in the field of spiritual and theological matters, for he was an authority and a source of deep information on venial and mortal sins, well versed in the secrets of Paradise, Hell, and Purgatory.

  Father Samaan’s mission in North Lebanon was to travel from one village to another, preaching and curing the people from the spiritual disease of sin, and saving them from the horrible trap of Satan. The Reverend Father waged constant war with Satan. The fellahin honoured and respected this clergyman, and were always anxious to buy his advice or prayers with pieces of gold and silver; and at every harvest they would present him with the finest fruits of their fields.

  One evening in Autumn, as Father Samaan walked his way toward a solitary village, crossing those valleys and hills, he heard a painful cry emerging from a ditch at the side of the road. He stopped and looked in the direction of the voice, and saw an unclothed man lying on the ground. Streams of blood oozed from deep wounds in his head and chest. He was moaning pitifully for aid, saying, “Save me, help me. Have mercy on me, I am dying.” Father Samaan looked with perplexity at the sufferer, and said within himself, “This man must be a thief.… He probably tried to rob the wayfarers and failed. Some one has wounded him, and I fear that should he die I may be accused of having taken his life.”

  Having thus pondered the situation, he resumed his journey, whereupon the dying man stopped him, calling out, “Do not leave me! I am dying!” Then the Father meditated again, and his face became pale as he realized he was refusing to help. His lips quivered, but he spoke to himself, saying, “He must surely be one of the madmen wandering in the wilderness. The sight of his wounds brings fear into my heart; what shall I do? Surely a spiritual doctor is not capable of treating flesh
-wounded bodies.” Father Samaan walked ahead a few paces when the near-corpse uttered a painful plaint that melted the heart of the rock and he gasped, “Come close to me! Come, for we have been friends a long time.… You are Father Samaan, the Good Shepherd, and I am not a thief nor a madman.… Come close, and do not let me die in this deserted place. Come, and I will tell you who I am.”

  Father Samaan came close to the man, knelt, and stared at him; but he saw a strange face with contrasting features; he saw intelligence with slyness, ugliness with beauty, and wickedness with softness. He withdrew to his feet sharply, and exclaimed, “Who are you?”

  With a fainting voice, the dying man said, “Fear me not, Father, for we have been strong friends for long. Help me to stand, and take me to the nearby streamlet and cleanse my wounds with your linens.” And the Father inquired, “Tell me who you are, for I do not know you, nor even remember having seen you.”

  And the man replied with an agonizing voice, “You know my identity! You have seen me one thousand times and you speak of me each day.… I am dearer to you than your own life.” And the Father reprimanded, “You are a lying imposter! A dying man should tell the truth.… I have never seen your evil face in my entire life. Tell me who you are, or I will suffer you to die, soaked in your own escaping life.” And the wounded man moved slowly and looked into the clergyman’s eyes, and upon his lips appeared a mystic smile; and in a quiet, deep and smooth voice he said, “I am Satan.”

  Upon hearing the fearful word, Father Samaan uttered a terrible cry that shook the far corners of the valley; then he stared, and realized that the dying man’s body, with its grotesque distortions, coincided with the likeness of Satan in a religious picture hanging on the wall of the village church. He trembled and cried out, saying, “God has shown me your hellish image and justly caused me to hate you; cursed be you forevermore! The mangled lamb must be destroyed by the shepherd lest he will infect the other lambs!”

  Satan answered, “Be not in haste, Father, and lose not this fleeting time in empty talk.… Come and close my wounds quickly, before Life departs from my body.” And the clergyman retorted, “The hands which offer a daily sacrifice to God shall not touch a body made of the secretion of Hell.… You must die accursed by the tongues of the Ages, and the lips of Humanity, for you are the enemy of Humanity, and it is your avowed purpose to destroy all virtue.”