Jalil Gibran : The Return of the Beloved

Jalil Gibran: 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 than 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 honour upon the bosom of Lebanon.

They continued their march, and the moon shone upon their weapons. The distant cave 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 grey rocks as though carved from them.

Near the horse they found a corpse, and the earth on which he lay was attained 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 valour an 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 wiling 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 has spun its silk and the fingers that has 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 again 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 sly 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 knee 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 shield 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 centre 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, here a loving soul awaits his homecoming… a soul of a maiden awaiting his return from the battlefield. Let us return him to her, she my not be denied the sight of his face and the printing of a last sill 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.

------------------------------------------------------------From Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations

Jalil Gibran: Pensamientos y meditaciones

Vision

From Jalil Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations

When Night came and Slumber spread its garment upon the face of the earth, I left my bed and walked toward the sea saying, “The sea never sleeps, and in its vigil there is consolation for a sleepless soul”.

When I reached the shore, the mist from the mountains had engauzed the region as a veil adorns the face of a young woman, I gazed at the teeming waves and listened to their praise of God and meditated upon the eternal power hidden within them- that power which runs with the tempest and rises with the volcano and smiles through the lips of the roses and sings with the brooks.

Then I saw three phantoms sitting upon a rock. I stumbled toward them as if some power were pulling me against my will.

Within a few paces from the phantoms, I halted as though held still by a magic force. At that moment one of the phantoms stood up and in a voice that seemed to rise from the depth of the sea said:

“Life without Love is like a tree without blossom and fruit. And love without Beauty is like flowers without scent and fruits without seeds…. Life, Love, and Beauty are three persons in one, who cannot be separated or changed.”

A second phantom spoke with a voice that roared like cascading water and said:

“Life without Rebellion is like seasons without Spring. And Rebellion without Right is like Spring in an arid desert…. Life, Rebellion, and Right are three- in- one who cannot be changed or separated.”

Then the third phantom in a voice like a clap of thunder spoke:

“Life without Freedom is like a body without a soul, and Freedom without Thought is like a confused spirit… Life, Freedom, and Thought are three –in- one , and are everlasting and never pass away.”

Then the three phantoms stood up together, and with one tremendous voice said:

“That which Love begets,

That which Rebellion creates,

That which Freedom rears,

Are three manifestations of God.

And god is the expression

Of the intelligent Universe.”

At that moment Silence mingled with the rustling of invisible wings and trembling of ethereal bodies; and it prevailed.

I closed my eyes and listened to the echoes of the sayings which I had just heard, and when I opened them I saw nothing but the sea wreathed in mist. I walked toward the rock where the three phantoms were sitting, but I saw naught save a column of incense spiralling toward heaven.

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Jalil Gibran: the sons of de goddess

Jalil Gibran

The Sons of the Goddess

And the Sons of the Monkeys

How strange Time is, and how queer we are! Time has really changed, and lo, it has changed us too. It walked one step forward, unveiled its face, alarmed us and then elated us.

Yesterday we complained about Time and trembled at its terrors. But today we have learned to love it and revere it, for we now understand its intents, its natural disposition, its secrets, and its mysteries.

Yesterday we crawled in fright like shuddering ghosts between the fears of the night and the menaces of the day. But today we walk joyously towards the mountain peak, the dwelling place of the raging tempest and the birthplace of thunder.

Yesterday we ate our bread kneaded with blood, and we drank our water mixed with tears. But today we began to receive the manna from the hands of the morning brides and drank the aged wine scented with the sweet breath of Spring.

Yesterday we were a toy in the hands of Destiny. But today Destiny has awakened from her intoxication to play and laugh and walk with us. We do not follow her but she follows us.

Yesterday we burned incense before the idols and offered sacrifices to the angry gods. But today we burn incense and offer sacrifices to our own being, for the greatest and most beautiful of all gods has raised his temple in our hearts.

Yesterday we bowed to the kings and bent our necks to the sultans. But today we do not pay reverence save to Right and we follow no one except Beauty and Love.

Yesterday we honoured false prophets and sorcerers. But today  Time has changed, and lo, it has changed us too. We can now stare at the face of the sun and listen to the songs of the sea, and nothing can shake us except a cyclone.

Yesterday we tore down the temples of our souls and from their debris we built tombs for our forefathers. But today our souls have turned into sacred altars that the ghosts of the Past cannot approach, that the fleshless fingers of the dead cannot touch.

We were a silent thought hidden in the corners of Oblivion. Today we are strong voice that can make the firmament reverberate.

We were a tiny spark buried under the ashes. Today we are a raging fire burning at the head of the valley.

We spent many a night awake, with the earth as our pillow and the snow as our blanket.

Like sheep without a shepherd we flocked together many nights grazing on our thoughts, an chewing the cud of our emotions; yet we remained hungry and athirst.

Oftentimes we stood between a passing day and a coming night lamenting our withering youth and longing for someone unknown, and gazing at the void and dark sky listening to the moaning of Silence and the shrieking of nothingness.

Those ages passed like wolves among the graves. But today the skies are clear, and we can rest peace fully upon divine beds and welcome our thoughts and dreams, and embrace our desires. Grasping with untrembling fingers the torches that sway around us, we can talk to the genii with explicit meaning. As the choirs of angels pass us, they become intoxicated with the longing of our hearts and the hymns of our souls.

Yesterday we were, and today we are! This is the will of the goddess among the sons of the goddess.  What is your will, oh of the monkeys? Have you walked a single step forward since you came forth from the crevices of the earth? Have you gazed toward heaven since Satan opened your eyes? Have you uttered a word from the book of Right since the lips of vipers kissed your lips? Or have you listened a moment to the song of Life since Death closed your ears?

Seventy thousand years ago I passed by and saw you moving like insects inside the caves; and seven minutes ago I glanced at you through the crystal glass of my window and saw you walking through the alleys fettered by slavery while the wings of Death hovered over you. You look the same today as you looked yesterday; and tomorrow, and the day after it, you shall look as I saw you in the beginning.

Yesterday we were, and today we are! This is the will of the goddess among the sons of the goddess; what is your will, oh sons of the monkeys?

______________________________From Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations.

En la obscura noche

Jalil Gibran

In the Dark Night

Written in World War I during the famine in Lebanon, it acquire a deep meaning in our time

In the dark night we call to one another and cry for help, while the ghost of Death stands in our midst stretching his black wings over us and, with his iron hands, pushes our souls into the abyss.

In the dark night Death strides on and we follow him frightened and moaning. Not one of us is capable of halting the fateful procession or even nourishing a hope of its end.

In the dark night Death walks and we walk behind him, and when he looks backward, hundreds of souls fall down on both sides of the road, and he who falls, sleeps and never awakens, and he who keeps his footing marches on fearfully in the dread certainty of falling later and joining those who have yielded to Death and entered the eternal sleep. But Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the dark night the brother calls his brother, the father his son, and the mother her children; but the pangs and torments of hunger afflict us equally.

But Death does not hunger or thirst. He devours our souls and bodies, drinks our blood and tears and is never sated.

During the first part of the night the child calls his mother saying, “I am hungry, mother,” and the mother replies, “Wait a while, my child.”

In the second part of the night the child repeats, “I am hungry, mother, give me some bread,” and the mother answers him, saying, “I have no bread, my beloved child”.

In the third part of the night Death arrives and smites both the mother and the child with his wings and them both sleep eternally by the side of the road. And Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the husband goes to the field in search of nourishment, but he finds naught in it save dust and stones.

At noontide he returns to his wife and children pale, weak, and empty-handed.

And at eventide Death arrives and the husband, his wife, and children lie in eternal sleep. And he laughs and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the farmer leaves his hut for the city, carrying in his pocket his mother’s and sister’s jewellery to exchange for bread. At eventide he returns without bread and without jewels, to find his mother and sisters sunk into eternal sleep, their eyes staring at nothingness. Whereupon he lifts his arms toward heaven and drops like a bird shot by a merciless hunter.

And Death, seeing the farmer, his mother and sisters beguiled to eternal sleep by the evil angel, laughs again and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

Oh, you who walk in the light of the day, we call you from the endless dark of the night. Do you hear our cries?

We have sent to you the spirits of our dead as our apostles. Have you heeded the apostles’ word?

We have burdened the east Wind with our gasps. Has the Wind reached your distant shores to unload his burden in your hands? Are you aware of our misery? Have you thought of coming to our rescue? Or have you hugged to yourselves your peace and comfort, saying, “what can the sons of the light do for the sons of the dark? Let the dead bury their dead and God’s will be done.”

Yes, let God’s will be done, but you not raise ourselves above yourselves so that God may make your instruments of His will and use you for our aid?

  In the dark night we call one another.

The brother calls his brother, the mother her daughter, the man his wife, and the lover his beloved.

And when our voices mingle together and reach the heart of heaven, Death pauses and laughs, then mocks us and marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

----------------------------------------------------From Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations