Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (55 page)

A Glance at the Future

From behind the wall of the Present I heard the hymns of humanity. I heard the sounds of the bells announcing the beginning of the prayer in the temple of Beauty. Bells moulded in the metal of emotion and poised above the holy altar—the human heart.

From behind the Future I saw multitudes worshipping on the bosom of Nature, their faces turned toward the East and awaiting the inundation of the morning light—the morning of Truth.

I saw the city in ruins and nothing remaining to tell man of the defeat of Ignorance and the triumph of Light.

I saw the elders seated under the shade of cypress and willow trees, surrounded by youths listening to their tales of former times.

I saw the youths strumming their guitars and piping on their reeds and the loose-tressed damsels dancing under the jasmine trees.

I saw the husbandmen harvesting the wheat, and the wives gathering the sheaves and singing mirthful songs.

I saw woman adorning herself with a crown of lilies and a girdle of green leaves.

I saw Friendship strengthened between man and all creatures, and clans of birds and butterflies, confident and secure, winging toward the brooks.

I saw no poverty; neither did I encounter excess. I saw fraternity and equality prevailing among man.

I saw not one physician, for everyone had the means and knowledge to heal himself.

I found no priest, for conscience had become the High Priest. Neither did I see a lawyer, for Nature has taken the place of the courts, and treaties of amity and companionship were in force.

I saw that man knew that he is the cornerstone of creation, and that he has raised himself above littleness and baseness and cast off the veil of confusion from the eyes of the soul; this soul now reads what the clouds write on the face of heaven and what the breeze draws on the surface of the water; now understands the meaning of the flower's breath and the cadences of the nightingale.

From behind the wall of the Present, upon the stage of coming ages, I saw Beauty as a groom and Spirit as a bride, and Life as the ceremonial Night of the Kedre.
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A night during the Moslem Lent when God is said to grant the wishes of the devout.

The Goddess of Fantasy

And after a wearying journey I reached the ruins of Palmyra. There I dropped, exhausted, upon the grass that grew among columns shattered and leveled by the ages. They looked like the debris left by invading armies.

At nightfall, as the black mantle of silence enfolded all creatures, I savored a strange scent in the air. It was as fragrant as incense and as inebriating as wine. My spirit opened her mouth to sip the ethereal nectar. Then a hidden hand seemed to press upon my senses and my eyelids grew heavy, while my spirit felt freed of its shackles.

Then the earth swayed under me and the sky trembled over me; whereupon I leaped up as though raised by a magic power. And I found myself in a meadow the like of which no human being has ever fancied. I found myself in the midst of a host of virgins who wore no other raiment than the beauty God gave them. They walked around me, but their feet touched not the grass. They chanted hymns expressing dreams of love. Each maiden played on a lute framed with ivory and strung with gold.

I came upon a vast clearing in the center of which stood a throne inlaid with precious stones and illuminated with the rays of the rainbow. The virgins stood at both sides, raised their voices and faced the direction whence came the scent of myrrh and frankincense. The trees were in bloom and from between the branches, laden with blossoms, a queen walked majestically to the throne. As she seated herself, a flock of doves, white as snow, descended and settled around her feet and formed a crescent, while the maidens chanted hymns of glory. I stood there watching what no man's eyes had seen, and hearing what no man's ears had heard.

Then the Queen motioned, and silence fell. And in a voice that caused my spirit to quiver like the strings of the lute under a player's fingers, she said, “I have called you, man, for I am the Goddess of Fantasy. I have bestowed upon you the honor of standing before me, the Queen of the prairies of dreams. Listen to my commandments, for I appoint you to preach them to the whole human race: explain to man that the city of dreams is a wedding feast at whose door a mighty giant stands on guard. No one may enter unless he wears a wedding garment. Let it be known that this city is a paradise whose sentinel is the angel of Love, and no human may glance at it save he on whose forehead the sign of Love is inscribed. Picture to them these beautiful fields whose streams flow with nectar and wine, whose birds sail in the skies and sing with the angels. Describe the aromatic scent of its flowers and let it be known that only the Son of Dream may tread its soft grass.

“Say that I gave man a cupful of joy; but he, in his ignorance, poured it out. Then the angels of Darkness filled the cup with the brew of Sorrow which he drank and became inebriated.

“Say that none can play the lyre of Life unless his fingers have been blessed by my touch and his eyes sanctified by the sight of my throne.

“Isaiah composed words of wisdom as a necklace of precious stones mounted on the golden chain of my love. Saint John recounted his vision in my behalf. And Dante could not explore the haven of souls save by my guidance. I am metaphor embracing reality, and reality revealing the singleness of the spirit; and a witness confirming the deeds of the gods.

“Truly I say to you that thoughts have a higher dwelling place than the visible world, and its skies are not clouded by sensuality. Imagination finds a road to the realm of the gods, and there man can glimpse that which is to be after the soul's liberation from the world of substance.”

And the Goddess of Fantasy drew me toward her with her magic glance and imprinted a kiss upon my burning lips and said, “Tell them that he who passes not his days in the realm of dreams is the slave of the days.”

Thereupon the voices of the virgins rose again and the column of incense ascended. Then the earth began to sway again and the sky to tremble; and suddenly I found myself again among Palmyra's sorrowful ruins.

The smiling Dawn had already made its appearance, and between my tongue and my lips were these words: “He who passes not his days in the realm of dreams is the slave of the days.”

History and the Nation

By the side of a rivulet that meandered among the rocks at the foot of Lebanon's Mountain sat a shepherdess surrounded by her flock of lean sheep grazing upon dry grass. She looked into the distant twilight as if the future were passing before her. Tears had jewelled her eyes like dew-drops adorning flowers. Sorrow had caused her lips to open that it might enter and occupy her sighing heart.

After sunset, as the knolls and hills wrapped themselves in shadow, History stood before the maiden. He was an old man whose white hair fell like snow over his breast and shoulders, and in his right hand he held a sharp sickle. In a voice like the roaring sea he said, “Peace unto you, Syria.”
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The virgin rose, trembling with fear. “What do you wish of me, History?” she asked. Then she pointed to her sheep. “This is the remnant of a healthy flock that once filled this valley. This is all that your covetousness has left me. Have you come now to sate your greed on that?

“These plains that were once so fertile have been trodden to barren dust by your trampling feet. My cattle that once grazed upon flowers and produced rich milk, now gnaw thistles that leave them gaunt and dry.

“Fear God, oh History, and afflict me no more. The sight of you has made me detest life, and the cruelty of your sickle has caused me to love Death.

“Leave me in my solitude to drain the cup of sorrow—my best wine. Go, History, to the West where Life's wedding feast is being celebrated. Here let me lament the bereavement you have prepared for me.”

Concealing his sickle under the folds of his garment, History looked upon her as a loving father looks upon his child, and said, “Oh Syria, what I have taken from you were my own gifts. Know that your sister-nations are entitled to a part of the glory which was yours. I must give to them what I gave you. Your plight is like that of Egypt, Persia, and Greece, for each one of them also has a lean flock and dry pasture. Oh Syria, that which you call degradation is an indispensable sleep from which you will draw strength. The flower does not return to life save through death, and love does not grow except after separation.”

The old man came close to the maiden, stretched forth his hand and said, “Shake my hand, oh Daughter of the Prophets.” And she shook his hand and looked at him from behind a screen of tears and said, “Farewell, History, farewell.” And he responded, “Until we meet again, Syria, until we meet again.”

And the old man disappeared like swift lightning, and the shepherdess called her sheep and started on her way, saying to herself, “
Shall there be another meeting?
”

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At the writing of this story Lebanon and Syria were one country known as Syria.