tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18595184426075750912024-03-14T22:29:33.167+08:00Fables and Parables CollectionsKahlil Gibran|Aesop Fables| HC. Andersen|Sastra Dunia|ShakespeareDj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comBlogger304125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-69363260930601169982013-08-20T16:09:00.001+08:002013-08-20T16:09:14.916+08:00The Ant and the Grasshopper | Its best to prepare for the days of necessity<span itemprop="description"> <p align="justify"><strong>The Ant and the Grasshopper</strong>. In a field one summer's day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart's content.  An Ant passed by, bearing along with great toil an ear of corn he was taking to the nest. </p> <p align="justify">  "Why not come and chat with me," said the Grasshopper, "instead of toiling and moiling in that way?" </p> </span> <p align="justify">  "I am helping to lay up food for the winter," said the Ant, "and recommend you to do the same." </p> <p align="justify">  "Why bother about winter?" said the Grasshopper; we have got plenty of food at present."  But the Ant went on its way and continued its toil.  When the winter came the Grasshopper had no food and found itself dying of hunger, while it saw the ants distributing every day corn and grain from the stores they had collected in the summer.  Then the Grasshopper knew, Its best to prepare for the days of necessity.</p> <p align="justify">  .</p> Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-35033437668519541752013-08-20T15:26:00.001+08:002013-08-20T15:26:54.780+08:00The Ant and the Dove | One good turn deserves another<span itemprop="description"> <p align="justify"><strong>The Ant and the Dove</strong>. AN ANT went to the bank of a river to quench its thirst, and being carried away by the rush of the stream, was on the point of drowning.  A Dove sitting on a tree overhanging the water plucked a leaf and let it fall into the stream close to her.  The Ant climbed onto it and floated in safety to the bank.  </p> </span> <p align="justify">Shortly afterwards a birdcatcher came and stood under the tree, and laid his lime-twigs for the Dove, which sat in the branches.  The Ant, perceiving his design, stung him in the foot.  In pain the birdcatcher threw down the twigs, and the noise made the Dove take wing. </p> Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-34912030033389726772013-08-20T14:31:00.001+08:002013-08-20T14:31:03.475+08:00The Ant and the Chrysalis | Appearances are deceptive<span itemprop="description"> <p align="justify"><strong>The Ant and the Chrysalis by Aesop</strong>. An Ant nimbly running about in the sunshine in search of food came across a Chrysalis that was very near its time of change. The Chrysalis moved its tail, and thus attracted the attention of the Ant, who then saw for the first time that it was alive. </p> <p align="justify">"Poor, pitiable animal!" cried the Ant disdainfully. "What a sad fate is yours! While I can run hither and thither, at my pleasure, and, if I wish, ascend the tallest tree, you lie imprisoned here in your shell, with power only to move a joint or two of your scaly tail." The Chrysalis heard all this, but did not try to make any reply. </p> </span> <p align="justify">A few days after, when the Ant passed that way again, nothing but the shell remained. Wondering what had become of its contents, he felt himself suddenly shaded and fanned by the gorgeous wings of a <strong>beautiful Butterfly</strong>. </p> <p align="justify">"Behold in me," said the Butterfly, "your much-pitied friend! Boast now of your powers to run and climb as long as you can get me to listen." So saying, the Butterfly rose in the air, and, borne along and aloft on the summer breeze, was soon lost to the sight of the Ant forever. </p> Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-18266727718850664492011-05-05T22:35:00.003+08:002013-08-20T16:31:42.828+08:00BEAUTY OF FORM AND BEAUTY OF MIND <div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><a href="http://fableparable.blogspot.com/2011/05/beauty-of-form-and-beauty-of-mind-aesop.html">BEAUTY OF FORM AND BEAUTY OF MIND</a></b>. There was once a sculptor, named Alfred, who having won the large gold medal and obtained a travelling scholarship, went to Italy, and then came back to his native land. He was young at that time- indeed, he is young still, although he is ten years older than he was then. On his return, he went to visit one of the little towns in the island of Zealand. The whole town knew who the stranger was; and one of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor, and all who were of any consequence, or who possessed some property, were invited. It was quite an event, and all the town knew of it, that it was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum. Apprentice-boys, children of the poor, and even the poor people themselves, stood before the house, watching the lighted windows; and the watchman might easily fancy he was giving a party also, there were so many people in the streets.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There was quite an air of festivity about it, and the house was full of it; for Mr. Alfred, the sculptor, was there. He talked and told anecdotes, and every one listened to him with pleasure, not unmingled with awe; but none felt so much respect for him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer. She seemed, so far as Mr. Alfred was concerned, to be like a piece of fresh blotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for more. She was very appreciative, and incredibly ignorant- a kind of female Gaspar Hauser.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I should like to see Rome," she said; "it must be a lovely city, or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there. Now, do give me a description of Rome. How does the city look when you enter in at the gate?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I cannot very well describe it," said the sculptor; "but you enter on a large open space, in the centre of which stands an obelisk, which is a thousand years old."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"An organist!" exclaimed the lady, who had never heard the word 'obelisk.' Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing, and the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his countenance, but the smile on his lips faded away; for he caught sight of a pair of dark-blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady. They belonged to her daughter; and surely no one who had such a daughter could be silly. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The mother was like a fountain of questions; and the daughter, who listened but never spoke, might have passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain. How charming she was! She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to converse with; for she did not speak, or, at least, very seldom.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Has the pope a great family?" inquired the lady.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The young man answered considerately, as if the question had been a different one, "No; he does not come from a greatbfamily."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"That is not what I asked," persisted the widow; "I mean, has he a wife and children?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"The pope is not allowed to marry," replied the gentleman.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I don't like that," was the lady's remark.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She certainly might have asked more sensible questions; but if she had not been allowed to say just what she liked, would her daughter have been there, leaning so gracefully on her shoulder, and looking straight before her, with a smile that was almost mournful on her face?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Mr. Alfred again spoke of Italy, and of the glorious colors in Italian scenery; the purple hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean, the azure of southern skies, whose brightness and glory could only be surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he said this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have understood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it, which also was charming.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Beautiful Italy!" sighed some of the guests.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Oh, to travel there!" exclaimed others.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Charming! Charming!" echoed from every voice.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery," said the naval officer's widow; "and if I do, we will travel- I and my daughter; and you, Mr. Alfred, must be our guide. We can all three travel together, with one or two more of our good friends." And she nodded in such a friendly way at the company, that each imagined himself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy. "Yes, we must go," she continued; "but not to those parts where there are robbers. We will keep to Rome. In the public roads one is<br />
always safe."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a sigh, or attributed to it! The young man attributed a great deal of meaning to this sigh. Those deep-blue eyes, which had been lit up this evening in honor of him, must conceal treasures, treasures of heart and mind, richer than the glories of Rome; and so when he left the party that night, he had lost it completely to the young lady. The house of the naval officer's widow was the one most constantly visited by Mr. Alfred, the sculptor. It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept up the conversation. He came for the sake of the daughter. They called her Kaela. Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kaela. She was really beautiful; but some said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"She has been accustomed to that," her mother said. "She is a beauty, and they are always easily tired. She does sleep rather late; but that makes her eyes so clear."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes! The young man felt the truth of the proverb, "Still waters run deep:" and his heart had sunk into their depths. He often talked of his adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions as on the first evening they met. It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He showed them colored plates of Naples, and spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire from it. The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "So that is a burning mountain; but is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Whole cities have been destroyed," he replied; "for instance, Herculaneum and Pompeii."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Oh, the poor people! And you saw all that with your own eyes?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which represents an eruption I once saw."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates, threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment,<br />
"What, did you see it throw up white fire?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For a moment, Alfred's respect for Kaela's mamma underwent a sudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light which surrounded Kaela, he soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for color. After all, it was of very little consequence; for Kaela's mamma had the best of all possessions; namely, Kaela herself.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Alfred and Kaela were betrothed, which was a very natural result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town. Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. The betrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too. She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"You are a true successor of Thorwalsden," she said to Alfred; and it seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a clever thing. Kaela was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every movement was graceful,- in fact, she was beautiful; that cannot be repeated too often. Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaela as well as of her mother. They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this common-place work yourself, instead of leaving it to your servant to do all that sticking together."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself," he replied.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Ah, yes, you are always so polite," said mamma, with a smile; and Kaela silently pressed his hand, all soiled as it was with the clay.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then he unfolded to them both the beauties of Nature, in all her works; he pointed out to them how, in the scale of creation, inanimate matter was inferior to animate nature; the plant above the mineral, the animal above the plant, and man above them all. He strove to show them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward form, and that it was the sculptor's task to seize upon that beauty of expression, and produce it in his works. Kaela stood silent, but nodded in approbation of what he said, while mamma-in-law made the following confession:-</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"It is difficult to follow you; but I go hobbling along after you with my thoughts, though what you say makes my head whirl round and round. Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Kaela's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred; it filled his soul, and held a mastery over him. Beauty beamed from Kaela's every feature, glittered in her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and pervaded every movement of her agile fingers.<br />
<br />
Alfred, the sculptor, saw this. He spoke only to her, thought only of her, and the two became one; and so it may be said she spoke much, for he was always talking to her; and he and she were one. Such was the betrothal, and then came the wedding, with bride's-maids and wedding presents, all duly mentioned in<br />
the wedding speech. Mamma-in-law had set up Thorwalsden's bust at the end of the table, attired in a dressing-gown; it was her fancy that he should be a guest. Songs were sung, and cheers given; for it was a gay wedding, and they were a handsome pair. "Pygmalion loved his Galatea," said one of the songs.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Ah, that is some of your mythologies," said mamma-in-law.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were to live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the "coarse work," as she always called the domestic arrangements. Kaela looked like a doll in a doll's house, for everything was bright and new, and so fine. There they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, a proverb may describe his position- he looked like a swan amongst the geese. The magic of form had enchanted him; he had looked at the casket without caring to inquire what it contained, and that omission often brings the greatest unhappiness into married life. The casket may be injured, the gilding may fall off, and then the purchaser regrets his bargain.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving way, with no studs at hand to fall back upon; but it is worse still in a large company to be conscious that your wife and mother-in-law are talking nonsense, and that you cannot depend upon yourself to produce a little ready wit to carry off the stupidity of the whole affair.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The young married pair often sat together hand in hand; he would talk, but she could only now and then let fall a word in the same melodious voice, the same bell-like tones. It was a mental relief when Sophy, one of her friends, came to pay them a visit. Sophy was not, pretty. She was, however, quite free from any physical deformity, although Kaela used to say she was a little crooked; but no eye, save an intimate acquaintance, would have noticed it. She was a very sensible girl, yet it never occurred to her that she might be a dangerous person in such a house. Her appearance created a new atmosphere in the doll's house, and air was really required, they all owned that. They felt the want of a change of air, and consequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls," said mamma-in-law and daughter both, on their return after a year's absence.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"There is no real pleasure in travelling," said mamma; "to tell the truth, it's very wearisome; I beg pardon for saying so. I was soon very tired of it, although I had my childrenwith me; and, besides, it's very expensive work travelling, very expensive. And all those galleries one is expected to see, and the quantity of things you are obliged to run after! It must be done, for very shame; you are sure to be asked when you come back if you have seen everything, and will most likely be told that you've omitted to see what was best worth seeing of all. I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas; I began to think I was turning into a Madonna myself."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"And then the living, mamma," said Kaela.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Yes, indeed," she replied, "no such a thing as a respectable meat soup- their cookery is miserable stuff."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The journey had also tired Kaela; but she was always fatigued, that was the worst of it. So they sent for Sophy, and she was taken into the house to reside with them, and her presence there was a great advantage. Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy was not only a clever housewife, but well-informed and accomplished, though that could hardly be expected in a person of her limited means. She was also a generous-hearted, faithful girl; she showed that thoroughly while Kaela lay sick, fading away. When the casket is everything, the casket should be strong, or else all is over. And all was over with the casket, for Kaela died. "She was beautiful," said her mother; "she was quite different from the beauties they call 'antiques,' for they are so damaged. A beauty ought to be perfect, and Kaela was a perfect beauty."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Alfred wept, and mamma wept, and they both wore mourning. The black dress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest. She had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again, marry Sophy, who was nothing at all to look at. "He's gone to the very extreme," said mamma-in-law; "he has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest, and he has forgotten his first wife. Men have no constancy. My husband was a very different man,- but then he died before me."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"'Pygmalion loved his Galatea,' was in the song they sung at my first wedding," said Alfred; "I once fell in love with a beautiful statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul, which is a gift from heaven, the angel who can feel and sympathize with and elevate us, I have not found and won till now. You came, Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty, though you are even fairer than is necessary. The chief thing still remains. You came to teach the sculptor that his work is but dust and clay only, an outward form made of a<br />
material that decays, and that what we should seek to obtain is the ethereal essence of mind and spirit. Poor Kaela! ourlife was but as a meeting by the way-side; in yonder world, where we shall know each other from a union of mind, we shall be but mere acquaintances."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"That was not a loving speech," said Sophy, "nor spoken like a Christian. In a future state, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where, as you say, souls are attracted to each other by sympathy; there everything beautiful develops itself, and is raised to a higher state of existence: her soul will acquire such completeness that it may harmonize with yours, even more than mine, and you will then once more utter your first rapturous exclamation of your love, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'. THE END</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-82352792498927368752011-05-05T22:21:00.001+08:002013-08-20T16:37:15.436+08:00The Angel by H.C Andersen<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"WHENEVER a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over all the placeswhich the child had loved during his life. Then he gathers a large handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?" asked the angel. Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded and withered on the trailing branches.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Poor rose-bush!" said the child, "let us take it with us to heaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the little one half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and heart's-ease.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Now we have flowers enough," said the child; but the angel only nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments of plates, pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"We will take this with us," said the angel, "I will tell you why as we fly along." And as they flew the angel related the history.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or twice, but no more. During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor's son brought him a green bough from a beech-tree. This he would place over his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun shone, and the birds carolled gayly. One spring day the neighbor's boy brought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the root still adhered. This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and placed in a window-seat near his bed. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed every year. It became a splendid flower-garden to the sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth. He watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even in his dreams- for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume.<br />
And it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even death, when the Lord called him. He has been one year with God. During that time the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten, till at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the day of the lodgers' removal. And this poor flower, withered and faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more real joy than the</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"But how do you know all this?" asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I know it," said the angel, "because I myself was the poor sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand. Then the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered field-flower, and it received a voice.<br />
Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy. They all joined in the chorus of praise, both great and small,- the good, happy child, and the poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of rubbish in a narrow, dark street.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
THE END</div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-50797441765218104902011-05-04T20:11:00.001+08:002013-08-20T16:39:51.612+08:00Aesop's Fables : LIFE OF ÆSOP<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Life and History of Æsop is involved, like that of Homer, the most famous of Greek poets, in much obscurity. Sardis, the capital of Lydia; Samos, a Greek island; Mesembria, an ancient colony in Thrace; and Cotiæum, the chief city of a province of Phrygia, contend for the distinction of being the birthplace of Æsop.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Although the honor thus claimed cannot be definitely assigned to any one of these places, yet there are a few incidents now generally accepted by scholars as established facts, relating to the birth, life, and death of Æsop. He is, by an almost universal consent, allowed to have been born about the year 620 B.C., and to have been by birth a slave.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He was owned by two masters in succession, both inhabitants of Samos, Xanthus and Jadmon, the latter of whom gave him his liberty as a reward for his learning and wit. One of the privileges of a freedman in the ancient republics of Greece was the permission to take an active interest in public affairs; and Æsop, like the philosophers Phædo, Menippus, and Epictetus, in later times, raised himself from the indignity of a servile condition to a position of high renown. <br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In his desire alike to instruct and to be instructed, he travelled through many countries, and among others came to Sardis, the capital of the famous king of Lydia, the great patron in that day, of learning and of learned men. He met at the court of Crœsus with Solon, Thales, and other sages, and is related so to have pleased his royal master, by the part he took in the conversations held with these philosophers, that he applied to him an expression which has since passed into a proverb, "μᾶλλον ὁ Φρύξ"—"The Phrygian has spoken better than all."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The life of Æsop was from the pen of Maximus Planudes, a monk of Constantinople, who was sent on an embassy to Venice by the Byzantine Emperor Andronicus the elder, and who wrote in the early part of the fourteenth century. His life was prefixed to all the early editions of these fables, and was republished as late as 1727 by Archdeacon Croxall as the introduction to his edition of Æsop. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This life by Planudes contains, however, so small an amount of truth, and is so full of absurd pictures of the grotesque deformity of Æsop, of wondrous apocryphal stories, of lying legends, and gross anachronisms, that it is now universally condemned as false, puerile, and unauthentic. It is given up in the present day, by general consent, as unworthy of the slightest credit. (Wikipedia, proyek gutenberg, sastra dunia)</div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-44454350706833917042011-05-04T12:57:00.000+08:002013-08-20T16:41:02.855+08:00Fable and Parable<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Fable and Parable</b> are something include in term what people called Traditional Story. Traditional stories, expressed as myth, legend, folklore, fairy tale, and fable, are used interchangeably in common speech as a synonym, or sometimes an antonym, parable, or metaphor for popular fiction. Similar terms include anecdote, parable, and fairy stories. In the academic circles of literature, religion, history, and anthropology, these terms are important jargon to identify and interpret stories more precisely. Not every story will fall into exactly one category. Some stories belong in multiple categories and some stories do not fit into any category.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Fable is</b> a succinct story, in prose or vers. The fable is one of the most enduring forms of <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://www.blogger.com/wiki/Folk_tales" title="Folk tales"><span style="color: #0645ad;">folk literature</span></a>, spread abroad, modern researchers agree, less by literary anthologies than by oral transmission. Fables can be found in the literature of almost every country.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Parable is</b> also succinct story, in prose or verse, that illustrates a lesson. It differs from a fable in that fables use animals, plants, inanimate objects, and forces of nature as characters, while parables generally feature human characters. It is a type of analogy.</div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-20833008451324143702010-12-17T15:55:00.002+08:002013-08-20T16:43:39.548+08:00Garden of the Prophet<div align="justify" class="postBody" style="color: #777777;">
<span style="color: black;"><strong>A</strong>LMUSTAFA, the chosen and the beloved, who was a noon unto his own day, returned to the isle of his birth in the month of Tichreen, which is the month of remembrance. </span><span style="color: black;">And as his ship approached the harbour, he stood upon its prow, and his mariners were about him. And there was a homecoming in his heart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">And he spoke, and the sea was in his voice, and he said: “Behold, the isle of our birth. Even here the earth heaved us, a song and a riddle; a song unto the sky, a riddle unto the earth; and what is there between earth and sky that shall carry the song and solve the riddle save our own passion? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The sea yields us once more to these shores. We are but another wave of her waves. She sends us forth to sound her speech, but how shall we do so unless we break the symmetry of our heart on rock and sand? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“For this is the law of mariners and the sea: If you would freedom, you must needs turn to mist. The formless is for ever seeking form, even as the countless nebulae would become suns and moons; and we who have sought much and return now to this isle, rigid moulds, we must become mist once more and learn of the beginning. And what is there that shall live and rise unto the heights except it be broken unto passion and freedom? </span><br />
<br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="more"></a>
<span style="color: black;">“For ever shall we be in quest of the shores, that we may sing and be heard. But what of the wave that breaks where no ear shall hear? It is the unheard in us that nurses our deeper sorrow. Yet it is also the unheard which carves our soul to form and fashion our destiny.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then one of his mariners came forth and said: “Master, you have captained our longing for this harbour, and behold, we have come. Yet you speak of sorrow, and of hearts that shall be broken.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he answered him and said: “Did I not speak of freedom, and of the mist which is our greater freedom? Yet it is in pain I make pilgrimage to the isle where I was born, even like unto a ghost of one slain come to kneel before those who have slain him.” </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="color: black;">And another mariner spoke and said: “Behold, the multitudes on the sea-wall. In their silence they have foretold even the day and the hour of your coming, and they have gathered from their fields and vineyards in their loving need, to await you.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa looked afar upon the multitudes, and his heart was mindful of their yearning, and he was silent. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then a cry came from the people, and it was a cry of remembrance and of entreaty. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he looked upon his mariners and said: “And what have I brought them? A hunter was I, in a distant land. With aim and might I have spent the golden arrows they gave me, but I have brought down no game. I followed not the arrows. Mayhap they are spreading now in the sun with the pinions of wounded eagles that would not fall to the earth. And mayhap the arrow-heads have fallen into the hands of those who had need of them for bread and wine. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“I know not where they have spent their flight, but this I know: they have made their curve in the sky. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Even so, love’s hand is still upon me, and you, my mariners, still sail my vision, and I shall not be dumb. I shall cry out when the hand of the seasons is upon my throat, and I shall sing my words when my lips are burned with flames.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">And they were troubled in their hearts because he spoke of these things. And one said: “Master, teach us all, and mayhap because your blood flows in our veins, and our breath is of your fragrance, we shall understand.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The he answered them, and the wind was in his voice, and he said: “Brought you me to the isle of my birth to be a teacher? Not yet have I been caged by wisdom. Too young am I and too verdant to speak of aught but self, which is for ever the deep calling upon the deep. </span></div>
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<div align="justify" class="postBody" style="color: #777777;">
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Let him who would have wisdom seek it in the buttercup or in a pinch of red clay. I am still the singer. Still I shall sing the earth, and I shall sing your lost dreaming that walks the day between sleep and sleep. But I shall gaze upon the sea.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And now the ship entered the harbour and reached the sea-wall, and he came thus to the isle of his birth and stood once more amongst his own people. And a great cry arose from their hearts so that the loneliness of his home-coming was shaken within him. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And they were silent awaiting his word, but he answered them not, for the sadness of memory was upon him, and he said in his heart: “Have I said that I shall sing? Nay, I can but open my lips that the voice of life may come forth and go out to the wind for joy and support.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then Karima, she who had played with him, a child, in the Garden of his mother, spoke and said: “Twelve years have you hidden your face from us, and for twelve years have we hungered and thirsted for your voice.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had closed the eyes of his mother when the white wings of death had gathered her. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he answered and said: “Twelve years? Said you twelve years, Karima? I measured not my longing with the starry rod, nor did I sound the depth thereof. For love when love is homesick exhausts time’s measurements and time’s soundings. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“There are moments that hold aeons of separation. Yet parting is naught but an exhaustion of the mind. Perhaps we have not parted.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa looked upon the people, and he saw them all, the youth and the aged, the stalwart and the puny, those who were ruddy with the touch of wind and sun, and those who were of pallid countenance; and upon their face a light of longing and of questioning. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And one spoke and said: “Master, life has dealt bitterly with our hopes and our desires. Our hearts are troubled, and we do not understand. I pray you, comfort us, and open to us the meanings of our sorrows.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And his heart was moved with compassion, and he said: “Life is older than all things living; even as beauty was winged ere the beautiful was born on earth, and even as truth was truth ere it was uttered. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Life sings in our silences, and dreams in our slumber. Even when we are beaten and low, Life is enthroned and high. And when we weep, Life smiles upon the day, and is free even when we drag our chains. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Oftentimes we call Life bitter names, but only when we ourselves are bitter and dark. And we deem her empty and unprofitable, but only when the soul goes wandering in desolate places, and the heart is drunken with over-mindfulness of self. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Life is deep and high and distant; and though only your vast vision can reach even her feet, yet she is near; and though only the breath of your breath reaches her heart, the shadow of your shadow crosses her face, and the echo of your faintest cry becomes a spring and an autumn in her breast. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And Life is veiled and hidden, even as your greater self is hidden and veiled. Yet when Life speaks, all the winds become words; and when she speaks again, the smiles upon your lips and the tears in your eyes turn also into words. When she sings, the deaf hear and are held; and when she comes walking, the sightless behold her and are amazed and follow her in wonder and astonishment.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he ceased from speaking, and a vast silence enfolded the people, and in the silence there was an unheard song, and they were comforted of their loneliness and their aching. *<b>A</b>ND he left them straightway and followed the path which led to his Garden, which was the Garden of his mother and his father, wherein they lay asleep, they and their forefathers. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And there were those who would have followed after him, seeing that it was a home-coming, and he was alone, for there was not one left of all his kin to spread the feast of welcome, after the manner of his people. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But the captain of his ship counselled them saying: “Suffer him to go upon his way. For his bread is the bread of aloneness, and in his cup is the wine of remembrance, which he would drink alone.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And his mariners held their steps, for they knew it was even as the captain of the ship had told them. And all those who gathered upon the sea-wall restrained the feet of their desire. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Only Karima went after him, a little way, yearning over his aloneness and his memories. And she spoke not, but turned and went unto her own house, and in the garden under the almond-tree she wept, yet she knew not wherefore. *<b>A</b>ND Almustafa came and found the Garden of his mother and his father, and he entered in, and closed the gate that no man might come after him. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And for forty days and forty nights he dwelt alone in that house and that Garden, and none came, not even unto the gate, for it was closed, and all the people knew that he would be alone. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And when the forty days and nights were ended, Almustafa opened the gate that they might come in. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And there came nine men to be with him in the Garden; three mariners from his own ship; three who had been his comrades in play when they were but children together. And these were his disciples. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And on a morning his disciples sat around him, and there were distances and remembrances in his eyes. And that disciple who was called Hafiz said unto him: “Master, tell us of the city of Orphalese, and of that land wherein you tarried those twelve years.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa was silent, and he looked away towards the hills and toward the vast ether, and there was a battle in his silence. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then he said: “My friends and my road-fellows, pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own winepress. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except when its neck is laid between the sword and the block. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggle, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpetings, and farewells him with hootings, only to welcome another with trumpetings again. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.” *<b>A</b>ND one said: “Speak to us of that which is moving in your own heart even now.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he looked upon that one, and there was in his voice a sound like a star singing, and he said: “In your waking dream, when you are hushed and listening to your deeper self, your thoughts, like snow- flakes, fall and flutter and garment all the sounds of your spaces with white silence. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And what are waking dreams but clouds that bud and blossom on the sky-tree of your heart? And what are your thoughts but the petals which the winds of your heart scatter upon the hills and its fields? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And even as you wait for peace until the formless within you takes form, so shall the cloud gather and drift until the Blessed Fingers shape its grey desire to little crystal suns and moons and stars.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then Sarkis, he who was the half-doubter, spoke and said: “But spring shall come, and all the snows of our dreams and our thoughts shall melt and be no more.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he answered saying: “When Spring comes to seek His beloved amongst the slumbering groves and vineyards, the snows shall indeed melt and shall run in streams to seek the river in the valley, to be the cup-bearer to the myrtle-trees and laurel. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“So shall the snow of your heart melt when your Spring is come, and thus shall your secret run in streams to seek the river of life in the valley. And the river shall enfold your secret and carry it to the great sea. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“All things shall melt and turn into songs when Spring comes. Even the stars, the vast snow-flakes that fall slowly upon the larger fields, shall melt into singing streams. When the sun of His face shall rise above the wider horizon, then what frozen symmetry would not turn into liquid melody? And who among you would not be the cup-bearer to the myrtle and the laurel? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“It was but yesterday that you were moving with the moving sea, and you were shoreless and without a self. Then the wind, the breath of Life, wove you, a veil of light on her face; then her hand gathered you and gave you form, and with a head held high you sought the heights. But the sea followed after you, and her song is still with you. And though you have forgotten your parentage, she will for ever assert her motherhood, and for ever will she call you unto her. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“In your wanderings among the mountains and the desert you will always remember the depth of her cool heart. And though oftentimes you will not know for what you long, it is indeed for her vast and rhythmic peace. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And how else can it be? In grove and in bower when the rain dances in leaves upon the hill, when snow falls, a blessing and a covenant; in the valley when you lead your flocks to the river; in your fields where brooks, like silver streams. join together the green garment; in your gardens when the early dews mirror the heavens; in your meadows when the mist of evening half veils your way; in all these the sea is with you, a witness to your heritage, and a claim upon your love. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“It is the snow-flake in you running down to the sea.” *<b>A</b>ND on a morning as they walked in the Garden, there appeared before the gate a woman, and it was Karima, she whom Almustafa had loved even as a sister in his boyhood. And she stood without, asking nothing, nor knocking with her hand upon the gate, but only gazing with longing and sadness into the Garden. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa saw the desire upon her eyelids, and with swift steps he came to the wall and the gate and opened unto her, and she came in and was made welcome. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And she spoke and said: “Wherefore have you withdrawn yourself from us altogether, that we may not live in the light of your countenance? For behold, these many years have we loved you and waited with longing for your safe return. And now the people cry for you and would have speech with you; and I am their messenger come to beseech you that you will show yourself to the people, and speak to them out of your wisdom, and comfort the broken of heart and instruct our foolishness.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And looking upon her, he said: “Call me not wise unless you call all men wise. A young fruit am I, still clinging to the branch, and it was only yesterday that I was but a blossom. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And call none among you foolish, for in truth we are neither wise nor foolish. We are green leaves upon the tree of life, and life itself is beyond wisdom, and surely beyond foolishness. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And have I indeed withdrawn myself from you? Know you not that there is no distance save that which the soul does not span in fancy? And when the soul shall span that distance, it becomes a rhythm in the soul. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The space that lies between you and your near neighbour unbefriended is indeed greater than that which lies between you and your beloved who dwells beyond seven lands and seven seas. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“For in remembrance there are no distances; and only in oblivion is there a gulf that neither your voice nor your eye can abridge. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Between the shores of the oceans and the summit of the highest mountain there is a secret road which you must needs travel ere you become one with the sons of earth. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And between your knowledge and your understanding there is a secret path which you must needs discover ere you become one with man, and therefore one with yourself. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Between your right hand that gives and your left hand that receives there is a great space. Only by deeming them both giving and receiving can you bring them into spacelessness, for it is only in knowing that you have naught to give and naught to receive that you can overcome space. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Verily the vastest distance is that which lies between your sleep-vision and your wakefulness; and between that which is but a deed and that which is a desire. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And there is still another road which you must needs travel ere you become one with Life. But of that road I shall not speak now, seeing that you are weary already of travelling.” *<b>T</b>HEN he went forth with the woman, he and the nine, even unto the market-place, and he spoke to the people, his friends and his neighbours, and there was joy in their hearts and upon their eyelids. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he said: “You grow in sleep, and live your fuller life in you dreaming. For all your days are spent in thanksgiving for that which you have received in the stillness of the night. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Oftentimes you think and speak of night as the season of rest, yet in truth night is the season of seeking and finding. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The day gives unto you the power of knowledge and teaches your fingers to become versed in the art of receiving; but it is night that leads you to the treasure-house of Life. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The sun teaches to all things that grow their longing for the light. But it is night that raises them to the stars. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“It is indeed the stillness of the night that weaves a wedding-veil over the trees in the forest, and the flowers in the garden, and then spreads the lavish feast and makes ready the nuptial chamber; and in that holy silence tomorrow is conceived in the womb of Time. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">‘Thus it is with you, and thus, in seeking, you find meat and fulfilment. And though at dawn your awakening erases the memory, the board of dreams is for ever spread, and the nuptial chamber waiting.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he was silent for a space, and they also, awaiting his word. Then he spoke again, saying: “You are spirits though you move in bodies; and like oil that burns in the dark, you are flames though held in lamps. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“If you were naught save bodies, then my standing before you and speaking unto you would be but emptiness, even as the dead calling unto the dead. But this is not so. All that is deathless in you is free unto the day and the night and cannot be housed nor fettered, for this is the will of the Most High. You are His breath even as the wind that shall be neither caught nor caged. And I also am the breath of His breath.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he went from their midst walking swiftly and entered again into the Garden. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Sarkis, he who was the half-doubter, spoke and said: “And what of ugliness, Master? You speak never of ugliness.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa answered him, and there was a whip in his words, and he said: “My friend, what man shall call you inhospitable if he shall pass by your house, yet would not knock at your door? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And who shall deem you deaf and unmindful if he shall speak to you in a strange tongue of which you understand nothing? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Is it not that which you have never striven to reach, into whose heart you have never desired to enter, that you deem ugliness? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“If ugliness is aught, indeed, it is but the scales upon our eyes, and the wax filling our ears. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Call nothing ugly, my friend, save the fear of a soul in the presence of its own memories.” *<b>A</b>ND upon a day as they sat in the long shadows of the white poplars, one spoke saying: “Master, I am afraid of time. It passes over us and robs us of our youth, and what does it give in return?” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he answered and said: “Take up now a handful of good earth. Do you find in it a seed, and perhaps a worm? If your hand were spacious and enduring enough, the seed might become a forest, and the worm a flock of angels. And forget not that the years which turn seeds to forests, and worms to angels, belong to this Now, all of the years, this very Now. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And what are the seasons of the years save your own thoughts changing? Spring is an awakening in your breast, and summer but a recognition of your own fruitfulness. Is not autumn the ancient in you singing a lullaby to that which is still a child in your being? And what, I ask you, is winter save sleep big with the dreams of all the other seasons.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the Mannus, the inquisitive disciple, looked about him and he saw plants in flower cleaving unto the sycamore-tree. And he said: “Behold the parasites, Master. What say you of them? They are thieves with weary eyelids who steal the light from the steadfast children of the sun, and make fair of the sap that runneth into their branches and their leaves.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he answered him saying: “My friend, we are all parasites. We who labour to turn the sod into pulsing life are not above those who receive life directly from the sod without knowing the sod. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Shall a mother say to her child: ‘I give you back to the forest, which is your greater mother, for you weary me, heart and hand’? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Or shall the singer rebuke his own song, saying: ‘Return now to the cave of echoes from whence you came, for your voice consumes my breath’? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And shall the shepherd say to his yearling: ‘I have no pasture whereunto I may lead you; therefore be cut off and become a sacrifice for this cause’? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Nay, my friend, all these things are answered even before they are asked, and, like your dreams, are fulfilled ere you sleep. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“We live upon one another according to the law, ancient and timeless. Let us live thus in loving-kindness. We seek one another in our aloneness, and we walk the road when we have no hearth to sit beside. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My friends and my brothers, the wider road is your fellow-man. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“These plants that live upon the tree draw milk of the earth in the sweet stillness of night, and the earth in her tranquil dreaming sucks at the breast of the sun. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And the sun, even as you and I and all there is, sits in equal honour at the banquet of the Prince whose door is always open and whose board is always spread. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Mannus, my friend, all there is lives always upon all there is; and all there is lives in the faith, shoreless, upon the bounty of the Most High.” *<b>A</b>ND on a morning when the sky was yet pale with dawn, they walked all together in the Garden and looked unto the East and were silent in the presence of the rising sun. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And after a while Almustafa pointed with his hand, and said: “The image of the morning sun in a dewdrop is not less than the sun. The reflection of life in your soul is not less than life. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The dewdrop mirrors the light because it is one with light, and you reflect life because you and life are one. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“When darkness is upon you, say: ‘This darkness is dawn not yet born; and though night’s travail be full upon me, yet shall dawn be born unto me even as unto the hills.’ </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The dewdrop rounding its sphere in the dusk of the lily is not unlike yourself gathering your soul in the heart of God. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Shall a dewdrop say: ‘But once in a thousand years I am a dewdrop,’ speak you and answer it saying: ‘Know you not that the light of all the years is shining in your circle?’ ” *<b>A</b>ND on an evening a great storm visited the place, and Almustafa and his disciples, the nine, went within and sat about the fire and were silent. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then one of the disciples said: “I am alone, Master, and the hoofs of the hours beat heavily upon my breast.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa rose up and stood in their midst, and he said in a voice like unto the sound of a great wind: “Alone! And what of it? You came alone, and alone shall you pass into the mist. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Therefore drink your cup alone and in silence. The autumn days have given other lips other cups and filled them with wine bitter and sweet, even as they have filled your cup. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Drink your cup alone though it taste of your own blood and tears, and praise life for the gift of thirst. For without thirst your heart is but the shore of a barren sea, songless and without a tide. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Drink your cup alone, and drink it with cheers. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Raise it high above your head and drink deep to those who drink alone. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Once I sought the company of men and sat with them at their banquet-tables and drank deep with them; but their wine did not rise to my head, nor did it flow into my bosom. It only descended to my feet. My wisdom was left dry and my heart was locked and sealed. Only my feet were with them in their fog. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And I sought the company of men no more, nor drank wine with them at their board. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Therefore I say unto you, though the hoofs of the hours beat heavily upon your bosom, what of it? It is well for you to drink your cup of sorrow alone, and your cup of joy shall you drink alone also.” *<b>A</b>ND on a day, as Phardrous, the Greek, walked in the Garden, he struck his foot upon a stone and he was angered. And he turned and picked up the stone, saying in a low voice: “O dead thing in my path!” and he flung away the stone. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, said: “Why say you: ‘O dead thing’? Have you been thus long in this Garden and know not that there is nothing dead here? All things live and glow in the knowledge of the day and the majesty of the night. You and the stone are one. There is a difference only in heart-beats. Your heart beats a little faster, does it, my friend? Ay, but it is not so tranquil. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Its rhythm may be another rhythm, but I say unto you that if you sound the depths of your soul and scale the heights of space, you shall hear one melody, and in that melody the stone and the star sing, the one with the other, in perfect unison. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“If my words reach not your understanding, then let be until another dawn. If you have cursed this stone because in your blindness you have stumbled upon it, then would you curse a star if so be your head should encounter it in the sky. But the day will come when you will gather stones and stars as a child plucks the valley-lilies, and then shall you know that all these things are living and fragrant.” *<b>A</b>ND on the first day of the week when the sounds of the temple bells sought their ears, one spoke and said: “Master, we hear much talk of God hereabout. What say you of God, and who is He in very truth?” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he stood before them like a young tree, fearless of wind or tempest, and he answered saying: “Think now, my comrades and beloved, of a heart that contains all your hearts, a love that encompasses all your loves, a spirit that envelops all your spirits, a voice enfolding all your voices, and a silence deeper than all your silences, and timeless. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Seek now to perceive in your self-fullness a beauty more enchanting than all things beautiful, a song more vast than the songs of the sea and the forest, a majesty seated upon the throne for which Orion is but a footstool, holding a sceptre in which the Pleiades are naught save the glimmer of dewdrops. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“You have sought always only food and shelter, a garment and a staff; seek now One who is neither an aim for your arrows nor a stony cave to shield you from the elements. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And if my words are a rock and a riddle, then seek, none the less, that your hearts may be broken, and that your questionings may bring you unto the love and the wisdom of the Most High, whom men call God.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And they were silent, every one, and they were perplexed in their heart; and Almustafa was moved with compassion for them, and he gazed with tenderness upon them and said: “Let us speak rather of the gods, your neighbours, and of your brothers, the elements that move about your houses and your fields. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“You would rise up in fancy unto the cloud, and you deem it height; and you would pass over the vast sea and claim it to be distance. But I say unto you that when you sow a seed in the earth, you reach a greater height; and when you hail the beauty of the morning to your neighbour, you cross a greater sea. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Too often do you sing God, the Infinite, and yet in truth you hear not the song. Would that you might listen to the song-birds, and to the leaves that forsake the branch when the wind passes by, and forget not, my friends, that these sing only when they are separated from the branch! </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Again I bid you to speak not so freely of God, who is your All, but speak rather and understand one another, neighbour unto neighbour, a god unto a god. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“For what shall feed the fledgling in the nest if the mother bird flies skyward? And what anemone in the fields shall be fulfilled unless it be husbanded by a bee from another anemone? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“It is only when you are lost in your smaller selves that you seek the sky which you call God. Would that you might find paths into your vast selves; would that you might be less idle and pave the roads! </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My mariners and my friends, it were wiser to speak less of God, whom we cannot understand, and more of each other, whom we may understand. Yet I would have you know that we are the breath and the fragrance of God. We are God, in leaf, in flower, and oftentimes in fruit.” *<b>A</b>ND on a morning when the sun was high, one of the disciples, one of those three who had played with him in childhood, approached him saying: “Master, my garment is worn, and I have no other. Give me leave to go unto the market-place and bargain that perchance I may procure me new raiment.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa looked upon the young man, and he said: “Give me your garment.” And he did so and stood naked in the noonday. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa said in a voice that was like a young steed running upon a road: “Only the naked live in the sun. Only the artless ride the wind. And he alone who loses his way a thousand times shall have a home-coming. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“The angels are tired of the clever. And it was but yesterday that an angel said to me: ‘We created hell for those who glitter. What else but fire can erase a shining surface and melt a thing to its core?’ </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And I said: ‘But in creating hell you created devils to govern hell.’ But the angel answered: ‘Nay, hell is governed by those who do not yield to fire.’ </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Wise angel! He knows the ways of men and the ways of half-men. He is one of the seraphim who come to minister unto the prophets when they are tempted by the clever. And no doubt he smiled when the prophets smile, and weeps also when they weep. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My friends and my mariners, only the naked live in the sun. Only the rudderless can sail the greater sea. Only he who is dark with the night shall wake with the dawn, and only he who sleeps with the roots under the snow shall reach the spring. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“For you are even like roots, and like roots are you simple, yet you have wisdom from the earth. And you are silent, yet you have within your unborn branches the choir of the four winds. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“You are frail and you are formless, yet you are the beginning of giant oaks, and of the half-pencilled patterned of the willows against the sky. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Once more I say, you are but roots betwixt the dark sod and the moving heavens. And oftentimes have I seen you rising to dance with the light, but I have also seen you shy. All roots are shy. They have hidden their hearts so long that they know not what to do with their hearts. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“But May shall come, and May is a restless virgin, and she shall mother the hills and plains.” *<b>A</b>ND one who had served in the Temple besought him saying: “Teach us, Master, that our words may be even as your words, a chant and an incense unto the people.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa answered and said: “You shall rise beyond your words, but your path shall remain, a rhythm and a fragrance; a rhythm for lovers and for all who are beloved, and a fragrance for those who would live life in a garden. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“But you shall rise beyond your words to a summit whereon the star-dust falls, and you shall open your hands until they are filled; then you shall lie down and sleep like a white fledgling in a white nest, and you shall dream of your tomorrow as white violets dream of spring. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Ay, and you shall go down deeper than your words. You shall seek the lost fountain-heads of the streams, and you shall be a hidden cave echoing the faint voices of the depths which now you do not even hear. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“You shall go down deeper than your words, ay, deeper than all sounds, to the very heart of the earth, and there you shall be alone with Him who walks also upon the Milky Way.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And after a space one of the disciples asked him saying: “Master, speak to us of being. What is it to be?” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa looked long upon him and loved him. And he stood up and walked a distance away from them; then returning, he said: “In this Garden my father and my mother lie, buried by the hands of the living; and in this Garden lie buried the seeds of yesteryear, bought hither upon the wings of the wind. A thousand times shall my mother and my father be buried here, and a thousand times shall the wind bury the seed; and a thousand years hence shall you and I and these flowers come together in this Garden even as now, and we shall be, loving life, and we shall be, dreaming of space, and we shall be, rising towards the sun. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“But now today to be is to be wise, though not a stranger to the foolish; it is to be strong, but not to the undoing of the weak; to play with young children, not as fathers, but rather as playmates who would learn their games; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To be simple and guileless with old men and women, and to sit with them in the shade of the ancient oak-trees, though you are still walking with Spring; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To seek a poet though he may live beyond the seven rivers, and to be at peace in his presence, nothing wanting, nothing doubting, and with no question upon your lips; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To know that the saint and the sinner are twin brothers, whose father is our Gracious King, and that one was born but the moment before the other, wherefore we regard his as the Crowned Prince; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To follow Beauty even when she shall lead you to the verge of the precipice; and though she is winged and you are wingless, and though she shall pass beyond the verge, follow her, for where Beauty is not, there is nothing; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To be a garden without walls, a vineyard without a guardian, a treasure-house for ever open to passers-by; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To be robbed, cheated, deceived, ay, misled and trapped and then mocked, yet with it all to look down from the height of your larger self and smile, knowing that there is spring that will come to your garden to dance in your leaves, and an autumn to ripen your grapes; knowing that if but one of your windows is open to the East, you shall never be empty; knowing that all those deemed wrongdoers and robbers, cheaters and deceivers are your brothers in need, and that you are perchance all of these in the eyes of the blessed inhabitants of that City Invisible, above this city. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And now, to you also whose hands fashion and find all things that are needful for the comfort of our days and our nights-- </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To be is to be a weaver with seeing fingers, a builder mindful of light and space; to be a ploughman and feel that you are hiding a treasure with every seed you sow; to be a fisherman and a hunter with a pity for the fish and for the beast, yet a still greater pity for the hunger and need of man. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And, above all, I say this: I would have you each and every one partners to the purpose of every man, for only so shall you hope to obtain your own good purpose. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My comrades and my beloved, be bold and not meek; be spacious and not confined; and until my final hour and yours be indeed your greater self.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he ceased speaking and there fell a deep gloom upon the nine, and their heart was turned away from him, for they understood not his words. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And behold, the three men who were mariners longed for the sea; and they who had served in the Temple yearned for the consolation of her sanctuary; and they who had been his playfellows desired the market-place. They all were deaf to his words, so that the sound of them returned unto him like weary and homeless birds seeking refuge. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa walked a distance from them in the Garden, saying nothing, nor looking upon them. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And they began to reason among themselves and to seek excuse for their longing to be gone. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And behold, they turned and went every man to his own place, so that Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, was left alone. *<b>A</b>ND when the night was fully come, he took his steps to the grave-side of his mother and sat beneath the cedar-tree which grew above the place. And there came the shadow of a great light upon the sky, and the Garden shone like a fair jewel upon the breast of earth. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa cried out in the aloneness of his spirit, and he said: </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Heavy-laden is my soul with her own ripe fruit. Who is there would come and take and be satisfied? Is there not one who has fasted and who is kindly and generous in heart, to come and break his fast upon my first yieldings to the sun and thus ease me of the weight of mine own abundance? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My soul is running over with the wine of the ages. Is there no thirsty one to come and drink? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Behold, there was a man standing at the cross-roads with hands stretched forth unto the passers-by, and his hands were filled with jewels. And he called upon the passers-by, saying: ‘Pity me, and take from me. In God’s name, take out of my hands and console me.’ </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“But the passers-by only looked upon him, and none took out of his hand. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would rather that he were a beggar stretching forth his hand to receive – ay, a shivering hand, and brought back empty to his bosom – than to stretch it forth full of rich gifts and find none to receive. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And behold, there was also the gracious prince who raised up his silken tents between the mountain and the desert and bade his servants to burn fire, a sign to the stranger and the wanderer; and who sent forth his slaves to watch the road that they might fetch a guest. But the roads and the paths of the desert were unyielding, and they found no one. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would rather that prince were a man of nowhere and nowhen, seeking food and shelter. Would that he were the wanderer with naught but his staff and an earthen vessel. For then at nightfall would he meet with his kind, and with the poets of nowhere and nowhen, and share their beggary and their remembrances and their dreaming. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And behold, the daughter of the great king rose from sleep and put upon her silken raiment and her pearls and rubies, and she scattered musk upon her hair and dipped her fingers in amber. Then she descended from her tower to her garden, where the dew of night found her golden sandals. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“In the stillness of the night the daughter of a ploughman, tending his sheep in a field, and returning to her father’s house at eventide with the dust of the curving roads upon her feet, and the fragrance of the vineyards in the folds of her garment. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And when the night is come, and the angel of the night is upon the world, she would steal her steps to the river-valley where her lover awaits. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would that she were a nun in a cloister burning her heart for incense, that her heart may rise to the wind, and exhausting her spirit, a candle, for a light arising toward the greater light, together with all those who worship and those who love and are beloved. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would rather that she were a woman ancient of years, sitting in the sun and remembering who had shared her youth.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the night waxed deep, and Almustafa was dark with the night, and his spirit was as a cloud unspent. And he cried again: </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Heavy-laden is my soul with her own ripe fruit; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Heavy-laden is my soul with her fruit. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Who now will come and eat and be fulfilled? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">My soul is overflowing with her wine. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Who now will pour and drink and be cooled of the desert heat? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would that I were a tree flowerless and fruitless, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For the pain of abundance is more bitter than barrenness, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the sorrow of the rich from whom no one will take </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Is greater than the grief of the beggar to whom none would give. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would that I were a well, dry and parched , and men throwing stones into me; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For this were better and easier to be borne than to be a source of living water </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">When men pass by and will not drink. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Would that I were a reed trodden under foot, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For that were better than to be a lyre of silvery strings </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">In a house whose lord has no fingers </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And whose children are deaf.” *<b>N</b>OW, for seven days and seven nights no man came nigh the Garden, and he was alone with is memories and his pain; for even those who had heard his words with love and patience had turned away to the pursuits of other days. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Only Karima came, with silence upon her face like a veil; and with cup and plate within her hand, drink and meat for his aloneness and his hunger. And after setting these before him, she walked her way. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa came again to the company of the white poplars within the gate, and he sat looking upon the road. And after a while he beheld as it were a cloud of dust blown above the road and coming toward him. And from out the cloud came the nine, and before them Karima guiding them. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa advanced and met them upon the road, and they passed through the gate, and all was well, as though they had gone their path but an hour ago. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">They came in and supped with him at his frugal board, after that Karima had laid upon it the bread and the fish and poured the last of the wine into the cups. And as she poured, she besought the Master saying: “Give me leave that I go into the city and fetch wine to replenish your cups, for this is spent.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he looked upon her, and in his eyes were a journey and a far country, and he said: “Nay, for it is sufficient unto the hour.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And they ate and drank and were satisfied. And when it was finished, Almustafa spoke in a vast voice, deep as the sea and full as a great tide under the moon, and he said: “My comrades and my road-fellows, we must needs part this day. Long have we climbed the steepest mountains and we have wrestled with the storms. We have known hunger, but we have also sat at wedding-feasts. Oftentimes have we been naked, but we have also worn kingly raiment. We have indeed travelled far, but now we part. Together you shall go your way, and alone must I go mine. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And though the seas and the vast lands shall separate us, still we shall be companions upon our journey to the Holy Mountain. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“But before we go our severed roads, I would give unto you the harvest and the gleaning of my heart: </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Go you upon your way with singing, but let each song be brief, for only the songs that die young upon your lips shall live in human hearts. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Tell a lovely truth in little words, but never an ugly truth in any words. Tell the maiden whose hair shines in the sun that she is the daughter of the morning. But if you shall behold the sightless, say not to him that he is one with night. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Listen to the flute-player as it were listening to April, but if you shall hear the critic and the fault-finder speak, be deaf as your own bones and as distant as your fancy. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My comrades and my beloved, upon your way you shall meet men with hoofs; give them your wings. And men with horns; give them wreaths of laurel. And men with claws; give them petals for fingers. And men with forked tongues; give them honey words. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“Ay, you shall meet all these and more; you shall meet the lame selling crutches; and the blind, mirrors. And you shall meet the rich men begging at the gate of the Temple. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“To the lame give your swiftness, to the blind of your vision; and see that you give of yourself to the rich beggars; they are the most needy of all, for surely no man would stretch a hand for alms unless he be poor indeed, though of great possessions. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“My comrades and my friends, I charge you by our love that you be countless paths which cross one another in the desert, where the lions and the rabbits walk, and also the wolves and the sheep. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And remember this of me: I teach you not giving, but receiving; not denial, but fulfilment; and not yielding, but understanding, with the smile upon the lips. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“I teach you not silence, but rather a song not over-loud. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“I teach you your larger self, which contains all men.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he rose from the board and went out straightway into the Garden and walked under the shadow of the cypress-trees as the day waned. And they followed him, at a little distance, for their heart was heavy, and their tongue clave to the roof of their mouth. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Only Karima, after she had put by the fragments, came unto him and said: “Master, I would that you suffer me to prepare food against the morrow and your journey.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he looked upon her with eyes that saw other worlds that this, and he said: “My sister, and my beloved, it is done, even from the beginning of time. The food and the drink is ready, for the morrow, even as for our yesterday and our today. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“I go, but if I go with a truth not yet voiced, that very truth will again seek me and gather me, though my elements be scattered throughout the silences of eternity, and again shall I come before you that I may speak with a voice born anew out of the heart of those boundless silences. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“And if there be aught of beauty that I have declared not unto you, then once again shall I be called, ay, even by mine own name, Almustafa, and I shall give you a sign, that you may know I have come back to speak all that is lacking, for God will not suffer Himself to be hidden from man, nor His word to lie covered in the abyss of the heart of man. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“I shall live beyond death, and I shall sing in your ears </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Even after the vast sea-wave carries me back </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">To the vast sea-depth. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I shall sit at your board though without a body, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And I shall go with you to your fields, a spirit invisible. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I shall come to you at your fireside, a guest unseen. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Death changes nothing but the masks that cover our faces. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The woodsman shall be still a woodsman, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The ploughman, a ploughman, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he who sang his song to the wind shall sing it also to the moving spheres.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the disciples were as still as stones, and grieved in their heart for that he had said: “I go.” But no man put out his hand to stay the Master, nor did any follow after his footsteps. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And Almustafa went out from the Garden of his mother, and his feet were swift and they were soundless; and in a moment, like a blown leaf in a strong wind, he was far gone from them, and they saw, as it were, a pale light moving up to the heights. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the nine walked their ways down the road. But the woman still stood in the gathering night, and she beheld how the light and the twilight were become one; and she comforted her desolation and her aloneness with his words: “I go, but if I go with a truth not yet voiced, that very truth will seek me and gather me, and again shall I come.” *<b>A</b>ND now it was eventide. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And he had reached the hills. His steps had led him to the mist, and he stood among the rocks and the white cypress-trees hidden from all things, and he spoke and said: </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, white breath not yet held in a mould, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I return to you, a breath white and voiceless, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">A word not yet uttered. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my winged sister mist, we are together now, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And together we shall be till life’s second day, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Whose dawn shall lay you, dewdrops in a garden, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And me a babe upon the breast of a woman, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And we shall remember. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, I come back, a heart listening in its depths, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Even as your heart, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">A desire throbbing and aimless even as your desire, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">A thought not yet gathered, even as your thought. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, first-born of my mother, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">My hands still hold the green seeds you bade me scatter, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And my lips are sealed upon the song you bade me sing; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And I bring you no fruit, and I bring you no echoes </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For my hands were blind, and my lips unyielding. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, much did I love the world, and the world loved me, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For all my smiles were upon her lips, and all her tears were in my eyes. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yet there was between us a gulf of silence which she would not abridge </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And I could not overstep. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, my deathless sister Mist, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I sang the ancient songs unto my little children, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And they listened, and there was wondering upon their face; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But tomorrow perchance they will forget the song, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And I know not to whom the wind will carry the song. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And though it was not mine own, yet it came to my heart </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And dwelt for a moment upon my lips. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, though all this came to pass, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I am at peace. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It was enough to sing to those already born. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And though the singing is indeed not mine, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yet it is of my heart’s deepest desire. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“O Mist, my sister, my sister Mist, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I am one with you now. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">No longer am I a self. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The walls have fallen, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And the chains have broken; </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I rise to you, a mist, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And together we shall float upon the sea until life’s second day, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">When dawn shall lay you, dewdrops in a garden, </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And me a babe upon the breast of a woman.” </span></div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-63024070691147580912010-12-17T15:30:00.001+08:002013-08-20T16:48:58.694+08:00THE RESCUER - The Broken Wings <div style="text-align: justify;">
Five years of Selma’s marriage passed without bringing children to strengthen the ties of spiritual relation between her and her husband and bind their repugnant souls together. A barren woman is looked upon with disdain everywhere because of most men’s desire to perpetuate themselves through posterity.<br />
<br />
The substantial man considers his childless wife as an enemy; he detests her and deserts her and wishes her death. Mansour Bey Galib was that kind of man; materially, he was like earth, and hard like steel and greedy like a grave. His desire of having a child to carry on his name and reputation made him hate Selma in spite of her beauty and sweetness. <br />
<br />
A tree grown in a cave does not bear fruit; and Selma, who lived in the shade of life, did not bear children..... <br />
<br />
The nightingale does not make his nest in a cage lest slavery be the lot of its chicks.... Selma was a prisoner of misery and it was Heaven’s will that she would not have another prisoner to share her life. The flowers of the field are the children of sun’s affection and nature’s love; and the children of men are the flowers of love and compassion.....</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
The spirit of love and compassion never dominated Selma’s beautiful home at Ras Beyrouth; nevertheless, she knelt down on her knees every night before Heaven and asked God for a child in whom she would find comfort and consolation... She prayed successively until Heaven answered her prayers.... <br />
<br />
The tree of the cave blossomed to bear fruit at last. The nightingale in the cage commenced making its nest with the feathers of its wings. <br />
<br />
Selma stretched her chained arms toward Heaven to receive God’s precious gift and nothing in the world could have made her happier than becoming a potential mother. <br />
<br />
She waited anxiously, counting the days and looking forward to the time when Heaven’s sweetest melody, the voice of her child, should ring in her ears.... She commenced to see the dawn of a brighter future through her tears.<br />
<br />
It was the month of Nisan when Selma was stretched on the bed of pain and labour, where life and death were wrestling. The doctor and the midwife were ready to deliver to the world a new guest. Late at night Selma started her successive cry... a cry of life’s partition from life... a cry of continuance in the firmament of nothingness.. a cry of a weak force before the stillness of great forces... the cry of poor Selma who was lying down in despair under the feet of life and death. <br />
<br />
At dawn Selma gave birth to a baby boy. When she opened her eyes she saw smiling faces all over the room, then she looked again and saw life and death still wrestling by her bed. She closed her eyes and cried, saying for the first time, “Oh, my son.” The midwife wrapped the infant with silk swaddles and placed him by his mother, but the doctor kept looking at Selma and sorrowfully shaking his head. <br />
<br />
The voices of joy woke the neighbours, who rushed into the house to felicitate the father upon the birth of his heir, but the doctor still gazed at Selma and her infant and shook his head.... <br />
<br />
The servants hurried to spread the good news to Mansour Bey, but the doctor stared at Selma and her child with a disappointed look on his face. <br />
<br />
As the sun came out, Selma took the infant to her breast; he opened his eyes for the first time and looked at his mother; then he quivered and close them for the last time. The doctor took the child from Selma’s arms and on his cheeks fell tears; then he whispered to himself, “He is a departing guest.” <br />
<br />
The child passed away while the neighbours were celebrating with the father in the big hall at the house and drinking to the health of their heir; and Selma looked at the doctor, and pleaded, “Give me my child and let me embrace him.” <br />
<br />
Though the child was dead, the sounds of the drinking cups increased in the hall..... <br />
He was born at dawn and died at sunrise...<br />
He was born like a thought and died like a sigh and disappeared like a shadow.<br />
He did not live to console and comfort his mother.<br />
His life began at the end of the night and ended at the beginning of the day, like a drop of few poured by the eyes of the dark and dried by the touch of the light.<br />
A pearl brought by the tide to the coast and returned by the ebb into the depth of the sea....<br />
A lily that has just blossomed from the bud of life and is mashed under the feet of death.<br />
A dear guest whose appearance illuminated Selma’s heart and whose departure killed her soul.<br />
This is the life of men, the life of nations, the life of suns, moons and stars.<br />
<br />
And Selma focused her eyes upon the doctor and cried, “Give me my child and let me embrace him; give me my child and let me nurse him.” <br />
Then the doctor bent his head. His voice choked and he said, “Your child is dead, Madame, be patient.<br />
Upon hearing her doctor’s announcement, Selma uttered a terrible cry. Then she was quiet for a moment and smiled happily. Her face brightened as if she had discovered something, and quietly she said, “Give me my child; bring him close to me and let me see him dead.”<br />
<br />
The doctor carried the dead child to Selma and placed him between her arms. She embraced him, then turned her face toward the wall and addressed the dead infant saying, “You have come to take me away my child; you have come to show me the way that leads to the coast. Here I am my child; lead me and let us leave this dark cave. <br />
<br />
And in a minute the sun’s ray penetrated the window curtains and fell upon two calm bodies lying on a bed, guarded by the profound dignity of silence and shaded by the wings of death. The doctor left the room with tears in his eyes, and as he reached the big hall the celebrations was converted into a funeral, but Mansour Bey Galib never uttered a word or shed a tear. He remained standing motionless like a statue, holding a drinking cup with his right hand. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * * * * * * *</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The second day Selma was shrouded with her white wedding dress and laid in a coffin; the child’s shroud was his swaddle; his coffin was his mother’s arms; his grave was her calm breast. Two corpses were carried in one coffin, and I walked reverently with the crowd accompanying Selma and her infant to their resting place. <br />
<br />
Arriving at the cemetery, Bishop Galib commenced chanting while the other priests prayed, and on their gloomy faces appeared a veil of ignorance and emptiness. <br />
<br />
As the coffin went down, one of the bystanders whispered, “This is the first time in my life I have seen two corpses in one coffin.” Another one said, “It seems as if the child had come to rescue his mother from her pitiless husband.” <br />
<br />
A third one said, “Look at Mansour Bey: he is gazing at the sky as if his eyes were made of glass. He does not look like he has lost his wife and child in one day.” A fourth one added, “His uncle, the Bishop, will marry him again tomorrow to a wealthier and stronger woman. <br />
<br />
The Bishop and the priests kept on singing and chanting until the grave digger was through filing the ditch. Then, the people, individually, approached the Bishop and his nephew and offered their respects to them with sweet words of sympathy, but I stood lonely aside without a soul to console me, as if Selma and her child meant nothing to me. <br />
<br />
The farewell-bidders left the cemetery; the grave digger stood by the new grave holding a shovel with his hand. As I approached him, I inquired, “Do you remember where Farris Effandi Karamy was buried?”<br />
<br />
He looked at me for a moment, then pointed at Selma’s grave and said, “Right here; I placed his daughter upon him and upon his daughter’s breast rests her child, and upon all I put the earth back with this shovel.”<br />
<br />
Then I said, “In this ditch you have also buried my heart.” <br />
<br />
As the grave digger disappeared behind the poplar trees, I could not resist anymore; I dropped down on Selma’s grave and wept. </div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-47661034816592759392010-12-17T15:29:00.001+08:002013-08-20T16:50:30.204+08:00THE SACRIFICE - The Broken Wings<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Sacrifiece. One day in the late part of June, as the people left the city for the mountain to avoid the heat of summer, I went as usual to the temple to meet Selma, carrying with me a little book of Andalusian poems. As I reached the temple I sat there waiting for Selma, glancing at intervals at the pages of my book, reciting those verses which filled my heart with ecstasy and brought to my soul the memory of the kings, poets, and knights who bade farewell to Granada, and left, with tears in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts, their palaces, institutions and hopes behind. In an hour I saw Selma walking in the midst of the gardens and I approaching the temple, leaning on her parasol as if she were carrying all the worries of the world upon her shoulders. As she entered the temple and sat by me, I noticed some sort of change in her eyes and I was anxious to inquire about it. <br />
<br />
Selma felt what was going on in my mind, and she put her hand on my head and said, “Come close to me, come my beloved, come and let me quench my thirst, for the hour of separation has come.” <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I asked her, “Did your husband find out about our meeting her?” She responded, “My husband does not care about me, neither does he know how I spend my time, for he is busy with those poor girls whom poverty has driven into the houses of ill fame; those girls who sell their bodies for bread, kneaded with blood and tears.” <br />
<br />
I inquired, “What prevents you from coming to this temple and sitting by me reverently before God? Is your soul requesting our separation.?” <br />
<br />
She answered with tears in her eyes, “No, my beloved, my spirit did not ask for separation, for you are a part of me. My eyes never get tired of looking at you, for you are their light; but if destiny ruled that I should walk the rough path of life loaded with shackles, would I be satisfied if your fate should be like mine?” Then she added, “I cannot say everything, because the tongue is mute with pain and cannot talk; the lips are sealed with misery and cannot move; all I can say to you is that I am afraid you may fall in the same trap I fell in.” </div>
<br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1859518442607575091" name="more"></a>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I asked, “What do you mean, Selma, and of whom are you afraid?” She covered her face with her hands and said, “The Bishop has already found out that once a month I have been leaving the grave which he buried me in.” <br />
<br />
I inquired, “Did the Bishop find out about our meetings here?” She answered, “If he did, you would not see me here sitting by you, but he is getting suspicious and he informed all his servants and guards to watch me closely. I am feeling that the house I live in and the path I walk on are all eyes watching me, and fingers pointing at me, and ears listening to the whisper of my thoughts.” <br />
<br />
She was silent for a while, and then she added, with tears pouring down her cheeks, “I am not afraid of the Bishop, for wetness does not scare the drowned, but I am afraid you might fall into the trap and become his prey; you are still young and free as the sunlight. I am not frightened of fate which has shot all its arrows in my breast, but I am afraid the serpent might bite your feet and detain you from climbing the mountain peak where the future awaits you with its pleasure and glory.” <br />
<br />
I said, “He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves of darkness will always be deceived by the days and nights. But listen, Selma, listen carefully; is separation the only means of avoiding people’s evils and meanness? Has the path of love and freedom been closed and is nothing left except submission to the will of the slaves of death?” <br />
<br />
She responded, “Nothing is left save separation and bidding each other farewell.” <br />
<br />
With rebellious spirit I took her hand and said excitedly, “We have yielded to the people’s will for a long time; since the time we met until this hour we have been led by the blind and have worshipped with them before their idols. Since the time I met you we have been in the hands of the Bishop like two balls which he has thrown around as he pleased. Are we going to submit to his will until death takes us away? Did God give us the breath of life to place it under death’s feet? Did He give us liberty to make it a shadow of slavery? He who extinguishes his spirit’s fire with his own hands is an infidel in the eyes of Heaven, for Heaven set the fire that burns in our spirits. He who does not rebel against oppression is doing himself injustice. I love you, Selma, and you love me, too; and Love is a precious treasure, it is God’s gift to sensitive and great spirits. Shall we throw this treasure away and let the pigs scatter it and trample on it? This world is full of wonder and beauty. Why are we living in this narrow tunnel which the Bishop and his assistants have dug out for us? Life is full of happiness and freedom; why don’t we take this heavy yoke off our shoulders and break the chains tied to our feet, and walk freely toward peace? Get up and let us leave this small temple for God’s great temple. Let us leave this country and all its slavery and ignorance for another country far away and unreached by the hands of the thieves. Let us go to the coast under the cover of night and catch a boat that will take us across the oceans, where we can find a new life full of happiness and understanding. Do not hesitate, Selma for these minutes are more precious to us than the crowns of kings and more sublime than the thrones of angels. Let us follow the column of light that leads us from this arid desert into the green fields where flowers and aromatic plants grow.” <br />
<br />
She shook her head and gazed at something invisible on the ceiling of the temple; a sorrowful smile appeared on her lips; then she said, “No, no my beloved. Heaven placed in my hand a cup, full of vinegar and gall; I forced myself to drink it in order to know the full bitterness at the bottom until nothing was left save a few drops, which I shall drink patiently. I am not worthy of a new life of love and peace; I am not strong enough for life’s pleasure and sweetness, because a bird with broken wings cannot fly in the spacious sky. The eyes that are accustomed to the dim light of a candle are not strong enough to stare at the sun. Do not talk to me of happiness; its memory makes me suffer. Mention not peace to me; its shadow frightens me; but look at me and I will show you the holy torch which Heaven has lighted in the ashes of my heart – you know that I love you as a mother loves her only child, and Love only taught me to protect you even from myself. It is Love, purified with fire, that stops me from following you to the farthest land. Love kills my desires so that you may live freely and virtuously. Limited love asks for possession of the beloved, but the unlimited asks only for itself. Love that comes between the naiveté and awakening of youth satisfies itself with possessing, and grows with embraces. But Love which is born in the firmament’s lap and has descended with the night’s secrets is not contended with anything but Eternity and immortality; it does not stand reverently before anything except deity. <br />
<br />
When I knew that the Bishop wanted to stop me from leaving his nephew’s house and to take my only pleasure away from me, I stood before the window of my room and looked toward the sea, thinking of the vast countries beyond it and the real freedom and personal independence which can be found there. I felt that I was living close to you, surrounded by the shadow of your spirit, submerged in the ocean of your affection. But all these thoughts which illuminate a woman’s heart and make her rebel against old customs and live in the shadow of freedom and justice, made me believe that I am weak and that our love is limited and feeble, unable to stand before the sun’s face. I cried like a king whose kingdom and treasure have been usurped, but immediately I saw your face through my tears and your eyes gazing at me and I remembered what you said to me once (Come, Selma, come and let us be strong towers before the tempest. Let us stand like brave soldiers before the enemy and face his weapons. If we are killed, we shall die as martyrs; and if we win, we shall live as heroes. Braving obstacles and hardships is nobler than retreat to tranquillity.) These words, my beloved, you uttered when the wings of death were hovering around my father’s bed; I remembered them yesterday when the wings of despair were hovering above my head. I strengthened myself and felt, while in the darkness of my prison, some sort of precious freedom easing our difficulties and diminishing our sorrows. I found out that our love was as deep as the ocean and as high as the stars and as spacious as the sky. I came here to see you, and in my weak spirit there is a new strength, and this strength is the ability to sacrifice a great thing in order to obtain a greater one; it is the sacrifice of my happiness so that you may remain virtuous and honourable in the eyes of the people and be far away from their treachery and persecution. <br />
<br />
In the past, when I came to this place I felt as if heavy chains were pulling down on me, but today I came here with a new determination that laughs at the shackles and shortens the way. I used to come to this temple like a scared phantom, but today I came like a brave woman who feels the urgency of sacrifice and knows the value of suffering, a woman who likes to protect the one she loves from the ignorant people and from her hungry spirit. I used to sit by you like a trembling shadow, but today I came here to show you my true self before Ishtar and Christ. <br />
<br />
I am a tree, grown in the shade, and today I stretched my branches to tremble for a while in the daylight. I came here to tell you good-bye, my beloved, and it is my hope that our farewell will be great and awful like our love. Let our farewell be like fire that bends the gold and makes it more resplendent.” <br />
<br />
Selma did not allow me to speak or protest, but she looked at me, her eyes glittering, her face retaining its dignity, seeming like an angel worthy of silence and respect. Then she flung herself upon me, something which she had never done before, and put her smooth arms around me and printed a long, deep, fiery kiss on my lips. <br />
<br />
As the sun went down, withdrawing its rays from those gardens and orchards, Selma moved to the middle of the temple and gazed along at its walls and corners as if she wanted to pour the light of her eyes on its pictures and symbols. Then she walked forward and reverently knelt before the picture of Christ and kissed His feet, and she whispered, “Oh, Christ, I have chosen Thy Cross and deserted Ishtar’s world of pleasure and happiness; I have worn the wreath of thorns and discarded the wreath of laurel and washed myself with blood and tears instead of perfume and scent; I have drunk vinegar and gall from a cup which was meant for wine and nectar; accept me, my Lord, among Thy followers and lead me toward Galilee with those who have chosen Thee, contended with their sufferings and delighted with their sorrows.” <br />
<br />
When she rose and looked at me and said, “Now I shall return happily to my dark cave, where horrible ghosts reside, Do not sympathize with me, my beloved, and do not feel sorry for me, because the soul that sees the shadow of God once will never be frightened, thereafter, of the ghosts of devils. And the eye that looks on heaven once will not be closed by the pains of the world.” <br />
<br />
Uttering these words, Selma left the place of worship; and I remained there lost in a deep sea of thoughts, absorbed in the world of revelation where God sits on the throne and the angels write down the acts of human beings, and the souls recite the tragedy of life, and the brides of Heaven sing the hymns of love, sorrow and immortality. <br />
<br />
Night had already come when I awakened from my swoon and found myself bewildered in the midst of the gardens, repeating the echo of every word uttered by Selma and remembering her silence, ,her actions, her movements, her expression and the touch of her hands, until I realized the meaning of farewell and the pain of lonesomeness. I was depressed and heart-broken. It was my first discovery of the fact that men, even if they are born free, will remain slaves of strict laws enacted by their forefathers; and that the firmament, which we imagine as unchanging, is the yielding of today to the will of tomorrow and submission of yesterday to the will of today – Many a time, since the night, I have thought of the spiritual law which made Selma prefer death to life, and many a time I have made a comparison between nobility of sacrifice and happiness of rebellion to find out which one is nobler and more beautiful; but until now I have distilled only one truth out of the whole matter, and this truth is sincerity, which makes all our deeds beautiful and honourable. And this sincerity was in Selma Karamy. </div>
Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-87677065217127935632010-12-17T15:27:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.205+08:00BETWEEN CHRIST AND ISHTAR<div style="text-align: justify;">In the midst of the gardens and hills which connect the city of Beirut with Lebanon there is a small temple, very ancient, dug out of white rock , surrounded by olive, almond, and willow trees. Although this temple is a half mile from the main highway, at the time of my story very few people interested in relics and ancient ruins had visited it. It was one of many interesting places hidden and forgotten in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it had become a haven for worshippers and a shrine for lonely lovers. <br /><br />As one enters this temple he sees on the wall at the east side an old Phoenician picture, carved in the rock depicting Ishtar, goddess of love and beauty, sitting on her throne, surrounded by seven nude virgins standing in different posses. The first one carries a torch; the second, a guitar; the third, a censer; the fourth a jug of wine; the fifth, a branch of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them look at Ishtar reverently. <br /><br />In the second wall there is another picture, more modern than the first one, symbolizing Christ nailed to the cross, and at His side stand His sorrowful mother and Mary Magdalene and two other women weeping. This Byzantine picture shows that it was carved in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.* </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />In the west side wall there are two round transits through which the sun’s rays enter the temple and strike the pictures and make them look as if they were painted with gold water colour. In the middle of the temple there is a square marble with old paintings on its sides, some of which can hardly be seen under the petrified lumps of blood which show that the ancient people offered sacrifices on this rock and poured perfume, wine, and oil upon it. <br /><br />There is nothing else in that little temple except deep silence, revealing to the living the secrets of the goddess and speaking wordlessly of past generations and the evolution of religions. Such a sight carries the poet to a world far away from the one in which he dwells and convinces the philosopher that men were born religious; they felt a need for that which they could not see and drew symbols, the meaning of which divulged their hidden secrets and their desires in life and death. <br /><br />In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every month and spent the hours with her, looking at those strange pictures, thinking of the crucified Christ and pondering upon the young Phoenician men and women who lived, loved and worshipped beauty in the person of Ishtar by burning incense before her statue and pouring perfume on her shrine, people for whom nothing is left to speak except the name, repeated by the march of time before the face of Eternity. <br /><br />It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma – those heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery. <br /><br />We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days, discussing our present, fearing our future, and gradually bringing out the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each other of our misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and then we would become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything except Love; we embraced each other until our hearts melted; then Selma would print a pure kiss on my forehead and fill my heart with ecstasy; I would return the kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her cheeks became gently red like the first ray of dawn on the forehead of hills. We silently looked at the distant horizon where the clouds were coloured with the orange ray of sunset. <br /><br />Our conversation was not limited to love; every now and then we drifted on to current topics and exchanged ideas. During the course of conversation Selma spoke of woman’s place in society, the imprint that the past generation had left on her character, the relationship between husband and wife, and the spiritual diseases and corruption which threatened married life. I remember her saying: “The poets and writers are trying to understand the reality of woman, but up to this day they have not understood the hidden secrets of her heart, because they look upon her from behind the sexual veil and see nothing but externals; they look upon her through the magnifying glass of hatefulness and find nothing except weakness and submission. <br /><br />In another occasion she said, pointing to the carved pictures on the walls of the temple, “In the heart of this rock there are two symbols depicting the essence of a woman’s desires and revealing the hidden secrets of her soul, moving between love and sorrow – between affection and sacrifice, between Ishtar sitting on the throne and Mary standing by the cross. The man buys glory and reputation, but the woman pays the price.” <br /><br />No one knew about our secret meetings except God and the flock of birds which flew over the temple. Selma used to come in her carriage to a place named Pasha park and from there she walked to the temple, where she found me anxiously waiting for her. <br /><br />We feared not the observer’s eyes, neither did our consciences bother us; the spirit which is purified by fire and washed by tears is higher than what the people call shame and disgrace; it is free from the laws of slavery and old customs against the affections of the human heart. That spirit can proudly stand unashamed before the throne of God. <br /><br />Human society has yielded for seventy centuries to corrupted laws until it cannot understand the meaning of the superior and eternal laws. A man’s eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of candles and cannot see the sunlight. Spiritual disease is inherited from one generation to another until it has become a part of people, who look upon it, not as a disease, but as a natural gift, showered by God upon Adam. If those people found someone free from the germs of this disease, they would think of him with shame and disgrace. <br /><br />Those who think evil of Selma Karamy because she left her husband’s home and met me in the temple are the diseased and weak-minded kind who look upon the healthy and sound as rebels. They are like insects crawling in the dark for fear of being stepped upon by the passer-by. <br /><br />The oppressed prisoners, who can break away from his jail and does not do so, is a coward. Selma, an innocent and oppressed prisoner, was unable to free herself from slavery. Was she to blame because she looked through the jail window upon the green fields and spacious sky? Will the people count her as being untruthful to her husband because she came from his home to sit by me between Christ and Ishtar? Let the people say what they please; Selma had passed the marshes which submerge other spirits and had landed in a world that could not be reached by the howling of wolves and rattling of snakes. People may say what they want about me, for the spirit who has seen the spectre of death cannot be scared by the faces of thieves; the soldier who has seen the swords glittering over his head and streams of blood under his feet does not care about rocks thrown at him by the children on the streets. </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-26357840302313042202010-12-17T15:26:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00BEFORE THE THRONE OF DEATH<div style="text-align: justify;">Marriage in these days is a mockery whose management is in the hands of young men and parents. In most countries the young men win while the parents lose. The woman is looked upon as a commodity, purchased and delivered from one house to another. In time her beauty fades and she becomes like an old piece of furniture left in a dark corner. <br /><br />Modern civilization has made woman a little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man’s covetousness. The woman of yesterday was a happy wife, but the woman of today is a miserable mistress. In the past she walked blindly in the light, but now she walks open-eyed in the dark. She was beautiful in her ignorance, virtuous in her simplicity, and strong in her weakness. Today she has become ugly in her ingenuity, superficial and heartless in her knowledge. Will the day ever come when beauty and knowledge, ingenuity and virtue, and weakness of body and strength of spirit will be united in a woman? <br /><br />I am one of those who believe that spiritual progress is a rule of human life, but the approach to perfection is slow and painful. If a woman elevates herself in one respect and is retarded in another, it is because the rough trail that leads to the mountain peak is not free of ambushes of thieves and lairs of wolves. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />This strange generation exists between sleeping and waking. It holds in its hands the soil of the past and the seeds of the future. However, we find in every city a woman who symbolizes the future. <br /><br />In the city of Beirut, Selma Karamy was the symbol of the future Oriental woman, but, like many who lie ahead of their time, she became the victim of the present; and like a flower snatched from its stem and carried away by the current of a river, she walked in the miserable procession of the defeated. <br /><br />Mansour Bey Galib and Selma were married, and lived together in a beautiful house at Ras Beyrouth, where all the wealthy dignitaries resided. Farris Effandi Karamy was left in his solitary home in the midst of his garden and orchards like a lonely shepherd amid his flock. <br /><br />The days and merry nights of the wedding passed, but the honeymoon left memories of times of bitter sorrow, as wars leave skulls and dead bones on the battlefield. The dignity of an Oriental wedding inspires the hearts of young men and women, but its termination may drop them like millstones to the bottom of the sea. Their exhilaration is like footprints on sand which remain only till they are washed away by the waves. <br /><br />Spring departed, and so did summer and autumn, but my love for Selma increased day by day until it became a kind of mute worship, the feeling that an orphan has toward the soul of his mother in Heaven. My yearning was converted to blind sorrow that could see nothing but itself, and the passion that drew tears from my eyes was replaced by perplexity that sucked the blood from my heart, and my sighs of affection became a constant prayer for the happiness of Selma and her husband and peace for her father. <br /><br />My hopes and prayers were in vain, because Selma’s misery was an internal malady that nothing but death could cure. <br /><br />Mansour Bey was a man to whom all the luxuries of life came easily; but, in spite of that, he was dissatisfied and rapacious. After marrying Selma, he neglected her father in his loneliness and prayed for his death so that he could inherit what was left of the old man’s wealth. <br /><br />Mansour Bey’s character was similar to his uncle’s; the only difference between the two was that the Bishop got everything he wanted secretly, under the protection of his ecclesiastical robe and the golden cross which he wore on his chest, while his nephew did everything publicly. The Bishop went to church in the morning and spent the rest of the day pilfering from the widows, orphans, and simple minded people. But Mansour Bey spent his days in pursuit of sexual satisfaction. On Sunday, Bishop Bulos Galib preached his Gospel; but during weekdays he never practiced what he preached, occupying himself with political intrigues of the locality. And, by means of his uncle’s prestige and influence, Mansour Bey made it his business to secure political plums for those who could offer a sufficient bribe. <br /><br />Bishop Bulos was a thief who hid himself under the cover of night, while his nephew, Mansour Bey, was a swindler who walked proudly in daylight. However, the people of Oriental nations place trust in such as they–wolves and butchers who ruin their country through covetousness and crush their neighbours with an iron hand. <br /><br />Why do I occupy these pages with words about the betrayers of poor nations instead of reserving all the space for the story of a miserable woman with a broken heart? Why do I shed tears for oppressed peoples rather than keep all my tears for the memory of a weak woman whose life was snatched by the teeth of death? <br /><br />But my dear readers, don’t’ you think that such a woman is like a nation that is oppressed by priests and rulers? Don’t you believe that thwarted love which leads a woman to the grave is like the despair which pervades the people of the earth? A woman is to a nation as light is to a lamp. Will not the light be dim if the oil in the lamp is low? <br /><br />Autumn passed, and the wind blew the yellow leaves form the trees, making way for winter, which came howling and crying. I was still in the City of Beirut without a companion save my dreams, which would lift my spirit to the sky and then bury it deep in the bosom of the earth. <br /><br />The sorrowful spirit finds relaxation in solitude. It abhors people, as a wounded deer deserts the herd and lives in a cave until it is healed or dead. <br /><br />One day I heard Farris Effandi was ill. I left my solitary abode and walked to his home, taking a new route, a lonely path between olive trees, avoiding the main road with its rattling carriage wheels. <br /><br />Arriving at the old man’s house, I entered and found Farris Effandi lying on his bed, weak and pale. His eyes were sunken and looked like two deep, dark valleys haunted by the ghosts of pain. The smile which had always enlivened his face was choked with pain and agony; and the bones of his gentle hands looked like naked branches trembling before the tempest. As I approached him and inquired as to his health, he turned his pale face toward me, and on his trembling lips appeared a smile, and he said in a weak voice, “Go – go, my son, to the other room and comfort Selma and bring her to sit by the side of my bed.” <br /><br />I entered the adjacent room and found Selma lying on a divan, covering her head with her arms and burying her face in a pillow so that her father would not hear her weeping. Approaching slowly, I pronounced her name in a voice that seemed more like sighing than whispering. She moved fearfully, as if she had been interrupted in a terrible dream, and sat up, looking at me with glazed eyes, doubting whether I was a ghost or a living being. After a deep silence which took us back on the wings of memory to that hour when we were intoxicated with wine of love, Selma wiped away her tears and said, “See how time has changed us! See how time has changed the course of our lives and left us in these ruins. In this place spring united us in a bond of love, and in this place has brought us together before the throne of death. How beautiful was spring, and how terrible is this winter!” <br /><br />Speaking thus, she covered her face again with her hands as if she were shielding her eyes from the spectre of the past standing before her. I put my hand on her head and said, “Come, Selma, come and let us be as strong towers before the tempest. Let us stand like brave soldiers before the enemy and face his weapons. If we are killed, we shall die as martyrs; and if we win, we shall live as heroes. Braving obstacles and hardships is nobler than retreat to tranquillity. The butterfly that hovers around the lamp until it dies is more admirable than the mole that lives in a dark tunnel. Come, Selma, let us walk this rough path firmly, with our eyes toward the sun so that we may not see the skulls and serpents among the rocks and thorns. if fear should stop us in middle of the road, we would hear only ridicule from the voices of the night, but if we reach the mountain peak bravely we shall join the heavenly spirits in songs of triumph and joy. Cheer up, Selma, wipe away your tears and remove the sorrow from your face. Rise, and let us sit by the bed of your father, because his life depends on your life, and your smile is his only cure.” <br /><br />Kindly and affectionately she looked at me and said, “Are you asking me to have patience, while you are in need of it yourself? Will a hungry man give his bread to another hungry man? Or will sick man give medicine to another which he himself needs badly?” <br /><br />She rose, her head bent slightly forward and we walked to the old man’s room and sat by the side of his bed. Selma forced a smile and pretended to be patient, and her father tried to make her believe that he was feeling better and getting stronger; but both father and daughter were aware of each other’s sorrow and heard the unvoiced sighs. They were like two equal forces, wearing each other away silently. The father’s heart was melting because of his daughter’s plight. They were two pure souls, one departing and the other agonized with grief, embracing in love and death; and I was between the two with my own troubled heart. We were three people, gathered and crushed by the hands of destiny; an old man like a dwelling ruined by flood, a young woman whose symbol was a lily beheaded by the sharp edge of a sickle, and a young man who was a weak sapling, bent by a snowfall; and all of us were toys in the hands of fate. <br /><br />Farris Effandi moved slowly and stretched his weak hand toward Selma, and in a loving and tender voice said, “Hold my hand, my beloved.” Selma held his hand; then he said, “I have lived long enough, and I have enjoyed the fruits of life’s seasons. I have experienced all its phases with equanimity. I lost your mother when you were three years of age, and she left you as a precious treasure in my lap. I watched you grow, and your face reproduced your mother’s features as stars reflected in a calm pool of water. Your character, intelligence, and beauty are your mother’s, even your manner of speaking and gestures. You have been my only consolation in this life because you were the image of your mother in every deed and word. Now, I grow old, and my only resting place is between the soft wings of death. Be comforted, my beloved daughter, because I have lived long enough to see you as a woman. Be happy because I shall live in you after my death. My departure today would be no different from my going tomorrow or the day after, for our days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my death approaches rapidly, and my soul is desirous of being united with your mother’s.” <br /><br />As he uttered these words sweetly and lovingly, his face was radiant. Then he put his hand under his pillow and pulled out a small picture in a gold frame. With his eyes on the little photograph, he said, “Come, Selma, come and see your mother in this picture.” <br /><br />Selma wiped away her tears, and after gazing long at the picture, she kissed it repeatedly and cried, “Oh, my beloved mother! Oh, mother!” Then she placed her trembling lips on the picture as if she wished to pour her soul into that image. <br /><br />The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word “Mother,” and the most beautiful call is the call of “My mother.” it is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart. The mother is every thing – she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his mother loses a pure soul who blesses and guards him constantly. <br /><br />Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother. The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of hear; it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks. And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans them. The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. And the mother, the prototype of all existence, is the eternal spirit, full of beauty and love. <br /><br />Selma Karamy never knew her mother because she had died when Selma was an infant, but Selma wept when she saw the picture and cried, “Oh, mother!” The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the heart of the rose and mingles with clear and cloudy air. <br /><br />Selma stared at her mother’s picture, kissing it repeatedly, until she collapsed by her father’s bed. <br /><br />The old man placed both hands on her head and said, “I have shown you, my dear child, a picture of your mother on paper. Now listen to me and I shall let you hear her words.” <br /><br />She lifted her head like a little bird in the nest that hears its mother’s wing, and looked at him attentively. <br /><br />Farris Effandi opened his mouth and said, ‘Your mother was nursing you when she lost her father; she cried and wept at his going, but she was wise and patient. She sat by me in this room as soon as the funeral was over and held my hand and said, ‘Farris, my father is dead now and you are my only consolation in this world. The heart’s affections are divided like the branches of the cedar tree; if the tree loses one strong branch, it will suffer but it does not die. It will pour all its vitality into the next branch so that it will grow and fill the empty place.’ This is what your mother told me when her father died, and you should say the same thing when death takes my body to its resting place and my soul to God’s care.’ <br /><br />Selma answered him with falling tears and broken heart, “When Mother lost her father, you took his place; but who is going to take yours when you are gone? She was left in the care of a loving and truthful husband; she found consolation in her little daughter, and who will be my consolation when you pass away? You have been my father and mother and the companion of my youth.” <br /><br />Saying these words, she turned and looked at me, and, holding the side of my garment, said, “This is the only friend I shall have after you are gone, but how can he console me when he is suffering also? How can a broken heart find consolation in a disappointed soul? A sorrowful woman cannot be comforted by her neighbour’s sorrow, nor can a bird fly with broken wings. He is the friend of my soul, but I have already placed a heavy burden of sorrow upon him and dimmed his eyes with my tears till he can see nothing but darkness. he is a brother whom I dearly love, but he is like all brothers who share my sorrow and help me shed tears which increase my bitterness and burn my heart.” <br /><br />Selma’s words stabbed my heart, and I felt that I could bear no more. The old man listened to her with depressed spirit. The old man listened to her with depressed spirit, trembling like the light of a lamp before the wind. Then he stretched out his hand and said, “Let me go peacefully, my child. I have broken the bars of this cage; let me fly and do not stop me, for your mother is calling me. The sky is clear and the sea is calm and the boat is ready to sail; do not delay its voyage. Let my body rest with those who are resting; let my dream end and my soul awaken with the dawn; let your soul embrace mine and give me the kiss of hope; let no drops of sorrow or bitterness fall upon my body lest the flowers and grass refuse their nourishment. Do not shed tears of misery upon my hand, for they may grow thorns upon my grave. Do not draw lines of agony upon my forehead, for the wind may pass and read them and refuse to carry the dust of my bones to the green prairies... I love you, my child, while I lived, and I shall love you when I am dead, and my soul shall always watch over you and protect you.” <br /><br />When Farris Effandi looked at me with his eyes half closed and said, “My son, be a real brother to Selma as your father was to me. Be her help and friend in need, and do not let her mourn, because mourning for the dead is a mistake. Repeat to her pleasant tales and sing for her the songs of life so that she may forget her sorrows. Remember me to your father; ask him to tell you the stories of your youth and tell him that I loved him in the person of his son in the last hour of my life.” <br /><br />Silence prevailed, and I could see the pallor of death on the old man’s face. Then he rolled his eyes and looked at us and whispered, “Don’t call the physician, for he might extend my sentence in this prison by his medicine. The days of slavery are gone, and my soul seeks the freedom of the skies. And do not call the priest to my bedside, because his incantations would not save me if I were a sinner, nor would it rush me to Heaven if I were innocent. The will of humanity cannot change the will of God, as an astrologer cannot change the course of the stars. But after my death let the doctors and priest do what they please, for my ship will continue sailing until it reaches its destination.” <br /><br />At midnight Farris Effandi opened his tired eyes for the last time and focused them on Selma, who was kneeling by his bedside. He tried to speak, but could not, for death had already choked his voice; but he finally managed to say, “The night has passed... Oh, Selma...Oh...Oh, Selma...” Then he bent his head, his face turned white, and I could see a smile on his lips as he breathed his last. <br /><br />Selma felt her father’s hand. It was cold. Then she raised her head and looked at his face. It was covered with the veil of death. Selma was so choked that she could not shed tears, nor sigh, nor even move. For a moment she stared at him with fixed eyes like those of a statue; then she bent down until her forehead touched the floor, and said, “Oh, Lord, have mercy and mend our broken wings.” <br /><br />Farris Effandi Karamy died; his soul was embraced by Eternity, and his body was returned to the earth. Mansour Bey Galib got possession of his wealth, and Selma became a prisoner of life–a life of grief and misery. <br /><br />I was lost in sorrow and reverie. Days and nights preyed upon me as the eagle ravages its victim. Many a time I tried to forget my misfortune by occupying myself with books and scriptures of past generation, but it was like extinguishing fire with oil, for I could see nothing in the procession of the past but tragedy and could hear nothing but weeping and wailing. The Book of Job was more fascinating to me than the Psalms and I preferred the Elegies of Jeremiah to the Song of Solomon. Hamlet was closer to my heart than all other dramas of western writers. Thus despair weakens our sight and closes our ears. We can see nothing but spectres of doom and can hear only the beating of our agitated hearts. </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-77923675150875941082010-12-17T15:23:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00THE LAKE OF FIRE<div style="text-align: justify;">Everything that a man does secretly in the darkness of night will be clearly revealed in the daylight. Words uttered in privacy will become unexpectedly common conversation. Deed which we hide today in the corners of our lodgings will be shouted on every street tomorrow. <br /><br />Thus the ghosts of darkness revealed the purpose of Bishop Bulos Galib’s meeting with Farris Effandi Karamy, and his conversation was repeated all over the neighbourhood until it reached my ears. <br /><br />The discussion that took place between Bishop Bulos Galib and Farris Effandi that night was not over the problems of the poor or the widows and orphans. The main purpose for sending after Farris Effandi and bringing him in the Bishops’ private carriage was the betrothal of Selma to the Bishop’s nephew, Mansour Bey Galib. <br /><br />Selma was the only child of the wealthy Farris Effandi, and the Bishop’s choice fell on Selma, not on account of her beauty and noble spirit, but on account of her father’s money which would guarantee Mansour Bey a good and prosperous fortune and make him an important man. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />The heads of religion in the East are not satisfied with their own munificence, but they must strive to make all members of their families superiors and oppressors. The glory of a prince goes to his eldest son by inheritance, but the exaltation of a religious head is contagious among his brothers and nephews. Thus the Christian bishop and the Moslem imam and the Brahman priest become like sea reptiles who clutch their prey with many tentacles and suck their blood with numerous mouths. <br /><br />Then the Bishop demanded Selma’s hand for his nephew, the only answer that he received from her father was a deep silence and falling tears, for he hated to lose his only child. Any man’s soul trembles when he is separated from his only daughter whom he has reared to young womanhood. <br /><br />The sorrow of parents at the marriage of a daughter is equal to their happiness at the marriage of a son, because a son brings to the family a new member, while a daughter, upon her marriage, is lost to them. <br /><br />Farris Effandi perforce granted the Bishop’s request, obeying his will unwillingly, because Farris Effandi knew the Bishop’s nephew very well, knew that he was dangerous, full of hate, wickedness, and corruption. <br /><br />In Lebanon, no Christian could oppose his bishop and remain in good standing. No man could disobey his religious head and keep his reputation. The eye could not resist a spear without being pierced, and the hand could not grasp a sword without being cut off. <br /><br />Suppose that Farris Effandi had resisted the Bishop and refused his wish; then Selma’s reputation would have been ruined and her name would have been blemished by the dirt of lips and tongues. In the opinion of the fox, high bunches of grapes that can’t be reached are sour. <br /><br />Thus destiny seized Selma and led her like a humiliated slave in the procession of miserable oriental woman, and thus fell that noble spirit into the trap after having flown freely on the white wings of love in a sky full of moonlight scented with the odour of flowers. <br /><br />In some countries, the parent’s wealth is a source of misery for the children. The wide strong box which the father and mother together have used for the safety of their wealth becomes a narrow, dark prison for the souls of their heirs. The Almighty Dinar which the people worship becomes a demon which punished the spirit and deadens the heart. Selma Karamy was one of those who were the victims of their parents’ wealth and bridegrooms’ cupidity. Had it not been for her father’s wealth, Selma would still be living happily. <br /><br />A week had passed. The love of Selma was my sole entertainer, singing songs of happiness for me at night and waking me at dawn to reveal the meaning of life and the secrets of nature. It is a heavenly love that is free from jealousy, rich and never harmful to the spirit. It is deep affinity that bathes the soul in contentment; a deep hunger for affection which, when satisfied, fills the soul with bounty; a tenderness that creates hope without agitating the soul, changing earth to paradise and life to a sweet and a beautiful dream. In the morning, when I walked in the fields, I saw the token of Eternity in the awakening of nature, and when I sat by the seashore I heard the waves singing the song of Eternity. And when I walked in the streets I saw the beauty of life and the splendour of humanity in the appearance of passers-by and movements of workers. <br /><br />Those days passed like ghosts and disappeared like clouds, and soon nothing was left for me but sorrowful memories. The eye with which I used to look at the beauty of spring and the awakening of nature, could see nothing but the fury of the tempest and the misery of winter. The ears with which I formerly heard with delight the song of the waves, could hear only the howling of the wind and the wrath of the sea against the precipice. The soul which had observed happily the tireless vigour of mankind and the glory of the universe, was tortured by the knowledge of disappointment and failure. Nothing was more beautiful than those days of love, and nothing was more bitter than those horrible nights of sorrow. <br /><br />When I could no longer resist the impulse, I went, on the weekend, once more to Selma’s home – the shrine which Beauty had erected and which Love had blessed, in which the spirit could worship and the heart kneel humbly and pray. When I entered the garden I felt a power pulling me away from this world and placing me in a sphere supernaturally free from struggle and hardship. Like a mystic who receives a revelation of Heaven, I saw myself amid the trees and flowers, and as I approached the entrance of the house I beheld Selma sitting on the bench in the shadow of a jasmine tree where we both had sat the week before, on that night which Providence had chosen for the beginning of my happiness and sorrow. <br /><br />She neither moved nor spoke as I approached her. She seemed to have known intuitively that I was coming, and when I sat by her she gazed at me for a moment and sighed deeply, then turned her head and looked at the sky. And, after a moment full of magic silence, she turned back toward me and tremblingly took my hand and said in a faint voice, “Look at me, my friend; study my face and I read in it that which you want to know and which I can not recite. Look at me, my beloved... look at me, my brother.” <br /><br />I gazed at her intently and saw that those eyes, which a few days ago were smiling like lips and moving like the wings of a nightingales, were already sunken and glazed with sorrow and pain. Her face, that had resembled the unfolding, sun kissed leaves of a lily, had faded and become colourless. Her sweet lips were like two withering roses that autumn has left on their stems. Her neck, that had been a column of ivory, was bent forward as if it no longer could support the burden of grief in her head. <br /><br />All these changes I saw in Selma’s face, but to me they were like a passing cloud that covered the face of the moon and makes it more beautiful. A look which reveals inward stress adds more beauty to the face, no matter how much tragedy and pain it bespeaks; but the face which, in silence, does not announce hidden mysteries is not beautiful, regardless of the symmetry of its features. The cup does not entice our lips unless the wine’s colour is seen through the transparent crystal. <br /><br />Selma, on that evening, was like a cup full of heavenly wine concocted of the bitterness and sweetness of life. Unaware, she symbolized the oriental woman who never leaves her parents’ home until she puts upon her neck the heavy yoke of her husband, who never leaves her loving mother’s arms until she must live as a slave, enduring the harshness of her husband’s mother. <br /><br />I continued to look at Selma and listen to her depressed spirit and suffer with her until I felt that time has ceased and the universe had faded from existence. I could see only her two large eyes staring fixedly at me and could feel only her cold, trembling hand holding mine. <br /><br />I woke from my swoon hearing Selma saying quietly, “Come by beloved, let us discuss the horrible future before it comes, My father has just left the house to see the man who is going to be my companion until death. My father, whom God chose for the purpose of my existence, will meet the man whom the world has selected to be my master for the rest of my life. In the heart of this city, the old man who accompanied me during my youth will meet the young man who will be my companion for the coming years. Tonight the two families will set the marriage date. What a strange and impressive hour! Last week at this time, under this jasmine tree, Love embraced my soul for the first time, okay. While Destiny was writing the first word of my life’s story at the Bishop’s mansion. Now, while my father and my suitor are planning the day of marriage, I see your spirit quivering around me as a thirsty bird flickers above a spring of water guarded by a hungry serpent. Oh, how great this night is! And how deep is its mystery!” <br /><br />Learning these words, I felt that dark ghost of complete despondency was seizing our love to choke it in its infancy, and I answered her, “That bird will remain flickering over that spring until thirst destroys him or falls into the grasp of a serpent and becomes its prey.” <br /><br />She responded, “No, my beloved, this nightingale should remain alive and sing until dark comes, until spring passes, until the end of the world, and keep on singing eternally. His voice should not be silenced, because he brings life to my heart, his wings should not be broken, because their motion removes the cloud from my heart. <br /><br />When I whispered, “Selma, my beloved, thirst will exhaust him, and fear will kill him.” <br /><br />She replied immediately with trembling lips, “The thirst of soul is sweeter than the wine of material things, and the fear of spirit is dearer than the security of the body. But listen, my beloved, listen carefully, I am standing today at the door of a new life which I know nothing about. I am like a blind man who feels his way so that he will not fall. My father’s wealth has placed me in the slave market, and this man has bought me. I neither know nor love him, but I shall learn to love him, and I shall obey him, serve him, and make him happy. I shall give him all that a weak woman can give a strong man. <br /><br />But you, my beloved, are still in the prime of life. You can walk freely upon life’s spacious path, carpeted with flowers. You are free to traverse the world, making of your heart a torch to light your way. You can think, talk, and act freely; you can write your name on the face of life because you are a man; you can live as a master because your father’s wealth will not place you in the slave market to be bought and sold; you can marry the woman of your choice and, before she lives in your home, you can let her reside in your heart and can exchange confidences without hindrances.” <br /><br />Silence prevailed for a moment, and Selma continued, “But, is it now that Life will tear us apart so that you may attain the glory of a man and I the duty of a woman? Is it for this that the valley swallows the song of the nightingale in its depths, and the wind scatters the petals of the rose, and the feet tread upon the wind cup? Were all those nights we spent in the moonlight by the jasmine tree, where our souls united, in vain? Did we fly swiftly toward the stars until our wings tired, and are we descending now into the abyss? Or was Love asleep when he came to us, and did he, when he woke, become angry and decide to punish us? Or did our spirits turn the nights’ breeze into a wind that tore us to pieces and blew us like dust to the depth of the valley? We disobeyed no commandment, nor did we taste of forbidden fruit, so what is making us leave this paradise? We never conspired or practised mutiny, then why are we descending to hell? No, no, the moments which united us are greater than centuries, and the light that illuminated our spirits is stronger than the dark; and if the tempest separates us on this rough ocean, the waves will unite us on the calm shore; and if this life kills us, death will unite us. A woman’s heart will change with time or season; even if it dies eternally, it will never perish. A woman’s heart is like a field turned into a battleground; after the trees are uprooted and the grass is burned and the rocks are reddened with blood and the earth is planted with bones and skulls, it is calm and silent as if nothing has happened; for the spring and autumn come at their intervals and resume their work. <br /><br />And now, my beloved, what shall we do? How shall we part and when shall we meet? Shall we consider love a strange visitor who came in the evening and left us in the morning? Or shall we suppose this affection a dream that came in our sleep and departed when we awoke? <br /><br />Shall we consider this week an hour of intoxication to be replaced by soberness? Raise your head and let me look at you, my beloved; open your lips and let me hear your voice. Speak to me! Will you remember me after this tempest has sunk the ship of our love? Will you hear the whispering of my wings in the silence of the night? Will you hear my spirit fluttering over you? Will you listen to my sighs? Will you see my shadow approach with the shadows of dusk and disappear with the flush of dawn? Tell me, my beloved, what will you be after having been magic ray to my eyes, sweet song to my ears, and wings to my soul? What will you be?” <br /><br />Learning these words, my heart melted, and I answered her, “ I will be as you want me to be, my beloved.” <br /><br />Then she said, “ I want you to love me as a poet loves his sorrowful thoughts. I want you to remember me as a traveller remembers a calm pool in which his image was reflected as he drank its water. I want you to remember me as a mother remember her child that died before it saw the light, and I want you to remember me as a merciful king remembers a prisoner who died before his pardon reached him. I want you to be my companion, and I want you to visit my father and console him in his solitude because I shall be leaving him soon and shall be a stranger to him. <br /><br />I answered her, saying, “ I will do all you have said and will make my soul an envelope for your soul, and my heart a residence for your beauty and my breast a grave for your sorrows. I shall love you , Selma, as the prairies love the spring, and I shall live in you in the life of a flower under the sun’s rays. I shall sing your name as the valley sings the echo of the bells of the village churches; I shall listen to the language of your soul as the shore listens to the story of the waves. I shall remember you as a stranger remembers his beloved country, and as a hungry man remembers a banquet, and as a dethroned king remembers the days of his glory, and as a prisoner remembers the hours of ease and freedom. I shall remember you as a sower remembers the bundles of wheat on his threshing flour, and as a shepherd remembers the green prairies the sweet brooks.” <br /><br />Selma listened to my words with palpitating heart, and said “Tomorrow the truth will become ghostly and the awakening will be like a dream. Will a lover be satisfied embracing a ghost, or will a thirsty man quench his thirst from the spring or a dream?” <br /><br />I answered her, “Tomorrow, destiny will put you in the midst of a peaceful family, but it will send me into the world of struggle and warfare. You will be in the home of a person whom chance has made most fortunate through your beauty and virtue, while I shall be living a life of suffering and fear. You will enter the gate of life, while I shall enter the gate of death. You will be received hospitably, while I shall exist in solitude, but I shall erect a statue of love and worship it in the valley of death. Love will be my sole comforter, and I shall drink love like wine and wear it like garment. At dawn, Love will wake me from slumber and take me to the distant field, and at noon will lead me to the shadows of trees, where I will find shelter with the birds from the heat of the sun. In the evening, it will cause me to pause before sunset to hear nature’s farewell song to the light of day and will show me ghostly clouds sailing in the sky. At night, Love will embrace me, and I shall sleep, dreaming of the heavenly world where the spirits of lovers and poets abide. In the Spring I shall walk side by side with love among violets and jasmines and drink the remaining drops of winter in the lily cups. In Summer we shall make the bundles of hay our pillows and the grass our bed, and the blue sky will cover us as we gaze at the stars and the moon. <br /><br />In Autumn, Love and I will go to the vineyard and sit by the wine press and watch the grapevines being denuded of their golden ornaments, and the migrating flocks of birds will wing over us. In Winter, we shall sit by the fireside reciting stories of long ago and chronicles of far countries. During my youth, Love will be my teacher; in middle age, my help; and in old age, my delight. Love, my beloved Selma, will stay with me to the end of my life, and after death the hand of God will unite us again.” <br /><br />All these words came from the depths of my heart like flames of fire which leap raging from the hearth and then disappear in the ashes. Selma was weeping as if her eyes were lips answering me with tears. <br /><br />Those whom love has not given wings cannot fly the cloud of appearances to see the magic world in which Selma’s spirit and mine existed together in that sorrowfully happy hour. Those whom Love has not chosen as followers do not hear when Love calls. This story is not for them. Even if they should comprehend these pages, they would not be able to grasp the shadowy meanings which are not clothed in words and do not reside on paper, but what human being is he who has never sipped the wine from the cup of love, and what spirit is it that has never stood reverently before that lighted altar in the temple whose pavement is the hearts of men and women and whose ceiling is the secret canopy of dreams? What flower is that on whose leaves the dawn has never poured a drop of dew; what streamlet is that which lost its course without going to the sea? <br /><br />Selma raised her face toward the sky and gazed at the heavenly stars which studded the firmament. She stretched out her hands; her eyes widened, and her lips trembled. On her pale face, I could see the signs of sorrow, oppression, hopelessness, and pain. Then she cried, “ Oh, Lord, what has a woman done that hath offended Thee? What sin has she committed to deserve such a punishment? For what crime has she been awarded everlasting castigation? Oh, Lord, Thou art strong, and I am weak. Why hast Thou made me suffer pain? Thou art great and almighty, while I am nothing but a tiny creature crawling before Thy throne. Why hast Thou crushed me with Thy foot? Thou art a raging tempest, and I am like dust; why, my Lord, hast Thou flung me upon the cold earth? Thou art powerful, and I am helpless; why art Thou fighting me? Thou art considerate, and I am prudent; why art Thou destroying me? Thou hast created woman with love, and why, with love, dost Thou ruin her? With Thy right hand dost Thou lift her, and with Thy left hand dost Thou strike her into the abyss, and she knows not why. In her mouth Thou blowest the breath of Life, and in her heart Thou sowest the seeds of death. Thou dost show her the path of happiness, but Thou leadest her in the road of misery; in her mouth Thou dost place a song of happiness, but then Thou dost close her lips with sorrow and dost fetter her tongue with agony. With Thy mysterious fingers dost Thou dress her wounds, and with Thine hands Thou drawest the dread of pain round her pleasures. In her bed Thou hidest pleasure and peace, but beside it Thou dost erect obstacles and fear. Thou dost excite her affection through Thy will, and from her affection does shame emanate. By Thy will Thou showest her the beauty of creation, but her love for beauty becomes a terrible famine. Thou dost make her drink life in the cup of death, and death in the cup of life. Thou purifiest her with tears, and in tears her life streams away. Oh, Lord, Thou hast opened my eyes with love, and with love Thou hast blinded me. Thou hast kissed me with Thy lips and struck me with Thy strong hand. Thou has planted in my heart a white rose, but around the rose a barrier of thorns. Thou hast tied my present with the spirit of a young man whom I love, but my life with the body of an unknown man. So help me, my Lord, to be strong in this deadly struggle and assist me to be truthful and virtuous until death. Thy will be done. Oh , Lord God.” <br /><br />Silence continued. Selma looked down, pale and frail; her arms dropped, and her head bowed and it seemed to me as if a tempest had broken a branch from a tree and cast it down to dry and perish. <br /><br />I took her cold hand and kissed it, but when I attempted to console her it was I who needed consolation more than she did. I kept silent, thinking of our plight and listening to my heartbeats. Neither of us said more. <br /><br />Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart-threads had become weak and even breathing would have broken them. <br /><br />It was midnight, and we could see the crescent moon rising from behind Mount Sunnin, and it looked in the midst of the stars, like the face of a corpse, in a coffin surrounded by the dim lights of candles. And Lebanon looked like an old man whose back was bent with age and whose eyes were a haven for insomnia, watching the dark and waiting for dawn, like asking sitting on the ashes of his throne in the debris of his palace. <br /><br />The mountains, trees, and rivers change their appearance with the vicissitudes of times and seasons, as a man changes with his experiences and emotions. The lofty poplar that resembles a bride in the daytime, will look like a column of smoke in the evening; the huge rock that stands impregnable at noon, will appear to be a miserable pauper at night, with earth for his bed and the sky for his cover; and the rivulet that we see glittering in the morning and hear singing the hymn of Eternity, will, in the evening, turn to a stream of tears wailing like a mother bereft of her child, and Lebanon, that had looked dignified a week before, when the moon was full and our spirits were happy, looked sorrowful and lonesome that night. <br /><br />We stood up and bade each other farewell, but love and despair stood between us like two ghosts, one stretching his wings with his fingers over our throats, one weeping and the other laughing hideously. <br /><br />As I took Selma’s hand and put it to my lips, she came close to me and placed a kiss on my forehead, then dropped on the wooden bench. She shut her eyes and whispered softly, “Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and mend my broken wings!” <br /><br />As I left Selma in the garden, I felt as if my senses were covered with a thick veil, like a lake whose surface is concealed by fog. <br /><br />The beauty of trees, the moonlight, the deep silence, everything about me looked ugly and horrible. The true light that had showed me the beauty and wonder of the universe was converted to a great flame of fire that seared my heart; and the Eternal music I used to hear became a clamour, more frightening than the roar of a lion. <br /><br />I reached my room, and like a wounded bird shot down by a hunter, I fell on my bed, repeating the words of Selma: “Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and mend my broken wings!” </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-4073392852026189962010-12-17T15:20:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00THE TEMPEST<div style="text-align: justify;">One day Farris Effandi invited me to dinner at his home. I accepted, my spirit hungry for the divine bread which Heaven placed in the hands of Selma, the spiritual bread which makes our hearts hungrier the more we eat of it. It was this bread which Kais, the Arabian poet, Dante, and Sappho tasted and which set their hearts afar; the bread which the Goddess prepares with the sweetness of kisses and the bitterness of tears. <br /><br />As I reached the home of Farris Effandi, I saw Selma sitting on a bench in the garden resting her head against a tree and looking like a bride in her white silk dress, or like a sentinel guarding that place. <br /><br />Silently and reverently I approached and sat by her. I could not talk; so I resorted to silence, the only language of the heart, but I felt that Selma was listening to my wordless call and watching the ghost of my soul in my eyes. <br /><br />In a few minutes the old man came out and greeted me as usual. When he stretched his hand toward me, I felt as if he were blessing the secrets that united me and his daughter. Then he said, “Dinner is ready, my children; let us eat. “We rose and followed him, and Selma’s eyes brightened; for a new sentiment had been added to her love by her father’s calling us his children. <br /><br />We sat at the table enjoying the food and sipping the old wine, but our souls were living in a world far away. We were dreaming of the future and its hardship</div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">. <br /><br />Three persons were separated in thoughts, but united in love; three innocent people with much feeling but little knowledge; a drama was being performed by an old man who loved his daughter and cared for her happiness, a young woman of twenty looking into the future with anxiety, and a young man, dreaming and worrying, who had tasted neither the wine of life nor its vinegar, and trying to reach the height of love and knowledge but unable to life himself up. We three sitting in twilight were eating and drinking in that solitary home, guarded by Heaven’s eyes, but at the bottoms of our glasses were hidden bitterness and anguish. <br /><br />As we finished eating, one of the maids announced the presence of a man at the door who wished to see Farris Effandi. “Who is he?” asked the old man. “The Bishop’s messenger,” said the maid. There was a moment of silence during which Farris Effandi stared at his daughter like a prophet who gazes at Heaven to divine its secret. Then he said to the maid, “Let the man in.” <br /><br />As the maid left, a man, dressed in oriental uniform and with big moustache curled at the ends, entered and greeted the old man, saying “His Grace, the Bishop, has sent me for you with his private carriage; he wishes to discuss important business with you.” The old man’s face clouded and his smile disappeared. After a moment of deep thought he came close to me and said in a friendly voice, “I hope to find you here when I come back, for Selma will enjoy your company in this solitary place.” <br /><br />Saying this, he turned to Selma and, smiling, asked if she agreed. She nodded her head, but her cheeks became red, and with a voice sweeter than the music of the lyre she said, “I will do my best, Father, to make our guest happy.” <br /><br />Selma watched the carriage that had taken her father and the Bishop’s messenger until it disappeared. Then she came and sat opposite me on a divan covered with green silk. She looked like a lily bent to the carpet of green grass by the breeze of dawn. It was the will of Heaven that I should be with Selma alone, at night, in her beautiful home surrounded by trees, where silence, love, beauty and virtue dwelt together. <br /><br />We were both silent, each waiting for the other to speak, but speech is not the only means of understanding between two souls. It is not the syllables that come from the lips and tongues that bring hearts together. <br /><br />There is something greater and purer than what the mouth utters. Silence illuminates our souls, whispers to our hearts, and brings them together. Silence separates us from ourselves, makes us sail the firmament of spirit, and brings us closer to Heaven; it makes us feel that bodies are no more than prisons and that this world is only a place of exile. <br /><br />Selma looked at me and her eyes revealed the secret of her heart. Then she quietly said, “Let us go to the garden and sit under the trees and watch the moon come up behind the mountains.” Obediently I rose from my seat, but I hesitated. <br /><br />Don’t you think we had better stay here until the moon has risen and illuminates the garden?” And I continued, “The darkness hides the trees and flowers. We can see nothing.” <br /><br />Then she said, “If darkness hides the trees and flowers from our eyes, it will not hide love from our hearts.” <br /><br />Uttering these words in a strange tone, she turned her eyes and looked through the window. I remained silent, pondering her words, weighing the true meaning of each syllable. Then she looked at me as if she regretted what she had said and tried to take away those words from my ears by the magic of her eyes. But those eyes, instead of making me forget what she had said, repeated through the depths of my heart more clearly and effectively the sweet words which had already become graven in my memory for eternity. <br /><br />Every beauty and greatness in this world is created by a single thought or emotion inside a man. Every thing we see today, made by past generation, was, before its appearance, a thought in the mind of a man or an impulse in the heart of a woman. The revolutions that shed so much blood and turned men’s minds toward liberty were the idea of one man who lived in the midst of thousands of men. The devastating wars which destroyed empires were a thought that existed in the mind of an individual. The supreme teachings that changed the course of humanity were the ideas of a man whose genius separated him from his environment. A single thought build the Pyramids, founded the glory of Islam, and caused the burning of the library at Alexandria. <br /><br />One thought will come to you at night which will elevate you to glory or lead you to asylum. One look from a woman’s eye makes you the happiest man in the world. One word from a man’s lips will make you rich or poor. <br /><br />That word which Selma uttered that night arrested me between my past and future, as a boat which is anchored in the midst of the ocean. That word awakened me from the slumber of youth and solitude and set me on the stage where life and death play their parts. <br /><br />The scent of flowers mingled with the breeze as we came into the garden and sat silently on a bench near a jasmine tree, listening to the breathing of sleeping nature, while in the blue sky the eyes of heaven witnessed our drama. <br /><br />The moon came out from behind Mount Sunnin and shone over the coast, hills, and mountains; and we could see the villages fringing the valley like apparitions which have suddenly been conjured from nothing. We could see the beauty of Lebanon under the silver rays of the moon. <br /><br />Poets of the West think of Lebanon as a legendary place, forgotten since the passing of David and Solomon and the Prophets, as the Garden of Eden became lost after the fall of Adam and Eve. To those Western poets, the word “Lebanon” is a poetical expression associated with a mountain whose sides are drenched with the incense of the Holy Cedars. It reminds them of the temples of copper and marble standing stern and impregnable and of a herd of deer feeding in the valleys. That night I saw Lebanon dream-like with the eyes of a poet. <br /><br />Thus, the appearance of things changes according to the emotions, and thus we see magic and beauty in them, while the magic and beauty are really in ourselves. <br /><br />As the rays of the moon shone on the face, neck, and arms of Selma, she looked like a statue of ivory sculptured by the fingers of some worshiper of Ishtar, goddess of beauty and love. As she looked at me, she said, “Why are you silent? Why do you not tell me something about your past?” As I gazed at her, my muteness vanished, and I opened my lips and said, “Did you not hear what I said when we came to this orchard? The spirit that hears the whispering of flowers and the singing of silence can also hear the shrieking of my soul and the clamour of my heart.” <br /><br />She covered her face with her hands and said in a trembling voice, “Yes, I heard you – I heard a voice coming from the bosom of night and a clamour raging in the heart of the day.” <br /><br />Forgetting my past, my very existence – everything but Selma – I answered her, saying, “And I heard you, too, Selma. I heard exhilarating music pulsing in the air and causing the whole universe to tremble.” <br /><br />Upon hearing these words, she closed her eyes and her lips I saw a smile of pleasure mingled with sadness. She whispered softly, “Now I know that there is something higher than heaven and deeper than the ocean and stranger than life and death and time. I know now what I did not know before.” <br /><br />At that moment Selma became dearer than a friend and closer than a sister and more beloved than a sweetheart. She became a supreme thought, a beautiful, an overpowering emotion living in my spirit. <br /><br />It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created in years or even generations. <br /><br />Then Selma raised her head and gazed at the horizon where Mount Sunnin meets the sky, and said, “Yesterday you were like a brother to me, with whom I lived and by whom I sat calmly under my father’s care. Now, I feel the presence of something stranger and sweeter than brotherly affection, an unfamiliar commingling of love and fear that fills my heart with sorrow and happiness.” <br /><br />I responded, “This emotion which we fear and which shakes us when it passes through our hearts is the law of nature that guides the moon around the earth and the sun around the God.” <br /><br />She put her hand on my head and wove her fingers through my hair. Her face brightened and tears came out of her eyes like drops of dew on the leaves of a lily, and she said, “Who would believe our story – who would believe that in this hour we have surmounted the obstacles of doubt? Who would believe that the month of Nisan which brought us together for the first time, is the month that halted us in the Holy of Holies of life?” <br /><br />Her hand was still on my head as she spoke, and I would not have preferred a royal crown or a wreath of glory to that beautiful smooth hand whose fingers were twined in my hair. <br /><br />Then I answered her: “People will not believe our story because they do not know what love is the only flower that grows and blossoms without the aid of seasons, but was it Nisan that brought us together for the first time, and is it this hour that has arrested us in the Holy of Holies of life? Is it not the hand of God that brought our souls close together before birth and made us prisoners of each other for all the days and nights? Man’s life does not commence in the womb and never ends in the grave; and this firmament, full of moonlight and stars, is not deserted by loving souls and intuitive spirits.” <br /><br />As she drew her hand away from my head, I felt a kind of electrical vibration at the roots of my hair mingled with the night breeze. Like a devoted worshiper who receives his blessing by kissing the altar in a shrine, I took Selma’s hand, placed my burning lips on it, and gave it a long kiss, the memory of which melts my heart and awakens by its sweetness all the virtue of my spirit. <br /><br />An hour passed, every minute of which was a year of love. The silence of the night, moonlight, flowers, and trees made us forget all reality except love, when suddenly we heard the galloping of horses and rattling of carriage wheels. Awakened from our pleasant swoon and plunged from the world of dreams into the world of perplexity and misery, we found that the old man had returned from his mission. We rose and walked through the orchard to meet him. <br /><br />Then the carriage reached the entrance of the garden, Farris Effandi dismounted and slowly walked towards us, bending forward slightly as if he were carrying a heavy load. He approached Selma and placed both of his hands on her shoulders and stared at her. Tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks and his lips trembled with sorrowful smile. In a choking voice, he said, “My beloved Selma, very soon you will be taken away from the arms of your father to the arms of another man. Very soon fate will carry you from this lonely home to the world’s spacious court, and this garden will miss the pressure of your footsteps, and your father will become a stranger to you. All is done; may God bless you.” <br /><br />Hearing these words, Selma’s face clouded and her eyes froze as if she felt a premonition of death. Then she screamed, like a bird shot down, suffering, and trembling, and in a choked voice said, “What do you say? What do you mean? Where are you sending me?” <br /><br />Then she looked at him searchingly, trying to discover his secret. In a moment she said, “I understand. I understand everything. The Bishop has demanded me from you and has prepared a cage for this bird with broken wings. Is this your will, Father?” <br /><br />His answer was a deep sigh. Tenderly he led Selma into the house while I remained standing in the garden, waves of perplexity beating upon me like a tempest upon autumn leaves. Then I followed them into the living room, and to avoid embarrassment, shook the old man’s hand, looked at Selma, my beautiful star, and left the house. <br /><br />As I reached the end of the garden I heard the old man calling me and turned to meet him. Apologetically he took my hand and said, “Forgive me, my son. I have ruined your evening with the shedding of tears, but please come to see me when my house is deserted and I am lonely and desperate. Youth, my dear son, does not combine with senility, as morning does not have meet the night; but you will come to me and call to my memory the youthful days which I spent with your father, and you will tell me the news of life which does not count me as among its sons any longer. Will you not visit me when Selma leaves and I am left here in loneliness?” <br /><br />While he said these sorrowful words and I silently shook his hand, I felt the warm tears falling from his eyes upon my hand. Trembling with sorrow and filial affection. I felt as if my heart were choked with grief. When I raised my head and he saw the tears in my eyes, he bent toward me and touched my forehead with his lips. “Good-bye, son, Good-bye.” <br /><br />In old man’s tear is more potent than that of a young man because it is the residuum of life in his weakening body. A young man’s tear is like a drop of dew on the leaf of a rose, while that of an old man is like a yellow leaf which falls with the wind at the approach of winter. <br /><br />As I left the house of Farris Effandi Karamy, Selma’s voice still rang in my ears, her beauty followed me like a wraith, and her father’s tears dried slowly on my hand. <br /><br />My departure was like Adam’s exodus from Paradise, but the Eve of my heart was not with me to make the whole world an Eden. That night, in which I had been born again, I felt that I saw death’s face for the first time. <br /><br />Thus the sun enlivens and kills the fields with its heat</div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-82763281990801314462010-12-17T15:19:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00THE WHITE TORCH<div style="text-align: justify;">The month of Nisan had nearly passed. I continued to visit the home of Farris Effendi and to meet Selma in that beautiful garden, gazing upon her beauty, marvelling at her intelligence, and hearing the stillness of sorrow. I felt an invisible hand drawing me to her. <br /><br />Every visit gave me a new meaning to her beauty and a new insight into her sweet spirit, Until she became a book whose pages I could understand and whose praises I could sing, but which I could never finish reading. A woman whom Providence has provided with beauty of spirit and body is a truth, at the same time both open and secret, which we can understand only by love, and touch only by virtue; and when we attempt to describe such a woman she disappears like vapour. <br /><br />Selma Karamy had bodily and spiritual beauty, but how can I describe her to one who never knew her? Can a dead man remember the singing of a nightingale and the fragrance of a rose and the sigh of a brook? Can a prisoner who is heavily loaded with shackles follow the breeze of the dawn? Is not silence more painful than death? Does pride prevent me from describing Selma in plain words since I cannot draw her truthfully with luminous colours? A hungry man in a desert will not refuse to eat dry bread if Heaven does not shower him with manna and quails. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />In her white silk dress, Selma was slender as a ray of moonlight coming through the window. She walked gracefully and rhythmically. Her voice was low and sweet; words fell from her lips like drops of dew falling from the petals of flowers when they are disturbed by the wind. <br /><br />But Selma’s face! No words can describe its expression, reflecting first great internal suffering, then heavenly exaltation. <br /><br />The beauty of Selma’s face was not classic; it was like a dream of revelation which cannot be measured or bound or copied by the brush of a painter or the chisel of a sculptor. Selma’s beauty was not in her golden hair, but in the virtue of purity which surrounded it; not in her large eyes, but in the light which emanated from them; not in her red lips, but in the sweetness of her words; not in her ivory neck, but in its slight bow to the front. Nor was it in her perfect figure, but in the nobility of her spirit, burning like a white torch between earth and sky. her beauty was like a gift of poetry. But poets care unhappy people, for, no matter how high their spirits reach, they will still be enclosed in an envelope of tears. <br /><br />Selma was deeply thoughtful rather than talkative, and her silence was a kind of music that carried one to a world of dreams and made him listen to the throbbing of his heart, and see the ghosts of his thoughts and feelings standing before him, looking him in the eyes. <br /><br />She wore a cloak of deep sorrow through her life, which increased her strange beauty and dignity, as a tree in blossom is more lovely when seen through the mist of dawn. <br /><br />Sorrow linked her spirit and mine, as if each saw in the other’s face what the heart was feeling and heard the echo of a hidden voice. God had made two bodies in one, and separation could be nothing but agony. <br /><br />The sorrowful spirit finds rest when united with a similar one. They join affectionately, as a stranger is cheered when he sees another stranger in a strange land. Hearts that are united through the medium of sorrow will not be separated by the glory of happiness. Love that is cleansed by tears will remain externally pure and beautiful. </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-785279472568364932010-12-17T15:18:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00ENTRANCE TO THE SHRINE<div style="text-align: justify;">In a few days, loneliness overcame me; and I tired of the grim faces of books; I hired a carriage and started for the house of Farris Effandi. As I reached the pine woods where people went for picnics, the driver took a private way, shaded with willow trees on each side. Passing through , we could see the beauty of the green grass, the grapevines, and the many coloured flowers of Nisan just blossoming. <br /><br />In a few minutes the carriage stopped before a solitary house in the midst of a beautiful garden. The scent of roses, gardenia, and jasmine filled the air. As I dismounted and entered the spacious garden, I saw Farris Effandi coming to meet me. He ushered me into his house with a hearty welcome and sat by me, like a happy father when he sees his son, showering me with questions on my life, future and education. I answered him, my voice full of ambition and zeal; for I heard ringing in my ears the hymn of glory, and I was sailing the calm sea of hopeful dreams. Just then a beautiful young woman, dressed in a gorgeous white silk gown, appeared from behind the velvet curtains of the door and walked toward me. Farris Effandi and I rose from our seats. <br /><br />This is my daughter Selma,” said the old man. Then he introduced me to her, saying, “Fate has brought back to me a dear old friend of mine in the person of his son.” Selma stared at me a moment as if doubting that a visitor could have entered their house. Her hand, when I touched it, was like a white lily, and a strange pang pierced my heart. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />We all sat silent as if Selma had brought into the room with her heavenly spirit worthy of mute respect. As she felt the silence she smiled at me and said,” Many a times my father has repeated to me the stories of his youth and of the old days he and your father spent together. If your father spoke to you in the same way, then this meeting is not the first one between us.” <br /><br />The old man was delighted to hear his daughter talking in such a manner and said, “Selma is very sentimental. She sees everything through the eyes of the spirit.” Then he resumed his conversation with care and tact as if he had found in me a magic which took him on the wings of memory to the days of the past. <br /><br />As I considered him, dreaming of my own later years, he looked upon me, as a lofty old tree that has withstood storms and sunshine throws its shadow upon a small sapling which shakes before the breeze of dawn. <br /><br />But Selma was silent. Occasionally, she looked first at me and then at her father as if reading the first and last chapters of life’s drama. The day passed faster in that garden, and I could see through the window the ghostly yellow kiss of sunset on the mountains of Lebanon. Farris Effandi continued to recount his experiences and I listened entranced and responded with such enthusiasm that his sorrow was changed to happiness. <br /><br />Selma sat by the window, looking on with sorrowful eyes and not speaking, although beauty has its own heavenly language, loftier than he voices of tongues and lips. It is a timeless language, common to all humanity, a calm lake that attracts the singing rivulets to its depth and makes them silent. <br /><br />Only our spirits can understand beauty, or live and grow with it. It puzzles our minds; we are unable to describe it in words; it is a sensation that our eyes cannot see, derived from both the one who observes and the one who is looked upon. Real beauty is a ray which emanates from the holy of holies of the spirit, and illuminates the body, as life comes from the depths of the earth and gives colour and scent to a flower. <br /><br />Real beauty lies in the spiritual accord that is called love which can exist between a man and a woman. <br /><br />Did my spirit and Selma’s reach out to each other that day when we met, and did that yearning make me see her as the most beautiful woman under the sun? Or was I intoxicated with the wine of youth which made me fancy that which never existed.? <br /><br />Did my youth blind my natural eyes and make me imagine the brightness of her eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, and the grace of her figure? Or was it that her brightness, sweetness, and grace opened my eyes and showed me the happiness and sorrow of love? <br /><br />It is hard to answer these questions, but I say truly that in that hour I felt an emotion that I had never felt before, a new affection resting calmly in my heart, like the spirit hovering over the waters at the creation of the world, and from that affection was born my happiness and my sorrow. Thus ended the hour of my first meeting with Selma, and thus the will of Heaven freed me from the bondage of youth and solitude and let me walk in the procession of love. <br /><br />Love is the only freedom in the world because it so elevates the spirit that the laws of humanity and the phenomena of nature do not alter its course. <br /><br />As I rose from my seat to depart, Farris Effandi came close to me and said soberly, “Now my son, since you know your way to this house, you should come often and feel that you are coming to your father’s house. Consider me as a father and Selma as a sister.” Saying this, he turned to Selma as if to ask confirmation of his statement. She nodded her head positively and then looked at me as one who has found an old acquaintance. <br /><br />Those words uttered by Farris Effandi Karamy placed me side by side with his daughter at the altar of love. Those words were a heavenly song which started with exaltation and ended with sorrow; they raised our spirits to the realm of light and searing flame; they were the cup from which we drank happiness and bitterness. <br /><br />I left the house. The old man accompanied me to the edge of the garden, while my heart throbbed like the trembling lips of a thirsty man. </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-72874141443805605552010-12-17T15:17:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.206+08:00THE HAND OF DESTINY<div style="text-align: justify;">In the spring of the that wonderful year, I was in Beirut. The gardens were full of Nisan flowers and the earth was carpeted with green grass, and like a secret of earth revealed to Heaven. The orange trees and apple trees, looking like houris or brides sent by nature to inspire poets and excite the imagination, were wearing white garments of perfumed blossoms. <br /><br />Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is most beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit that roams round the earth but hovers over Lebanon, conversing with kings and prophets, singing with the rives the songs of Solomon, and repeating with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the memory of ancient glory. Beirut, free from the mud of winter and the dust of summer, is like a bride in the spring, or like a mermaid sitting by the side of a brook drying her smooth skin in the rays of the sun. <br /><br />One day, in the month of Nisan, I went to visit a friend whose home was at some distance from the glamorous city. As we were conversing, a dignified man of about sixty-five entered the house. As I rose to greet him, my friend introduced him to me as Farris Effandi Karamy and then gave him my name with flattering words. The old man looked at me a moment, touching his forehead with the ends of his fingers as if he were trying to regain his memory. Then he smilingly approached me saying, “ You are the son of a very dear friend of mine, and I am happy to see that friend in your person.” </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />Much affected by his words, I was attracted to him like a bird whose instinct leads him to his nest before the coming of the tempest. As we sat down, he told us about his friendship with my father, recalling the time which they spent together. An old man likes to return in memory to the days of his youth like a stranger who longs to go back to his own country. He delights to tell stories of the past like a poet who takes pleasure in reciting his best poem. He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems to him an approach to the oblivion of the grave. An hour full of old memories passed like the shadows of the trees over the grass. When Farris Effandi started to leave, he put his left hand on my shoulder and shook my right hand, saying, “ I have not seen your father for twenty years. I hope you will l take his place in frequent visits to my house.” I promised gratefully to do my duty toward a dear friend of my father. <br /><br />Then the old man left the house, I asked my friend to tell me more about him. He said, “I do not know any other man in Beirut whose wealth has made him kind and whose kindness has made him wealthy. He is one of the few who come to this world and leave it without harming any one, but people of that kind are usually miserable and oppressed because they are not clever enough to save themselves from the crookedness of others. Farris Effandi has one daughter whose character is similar to his and whose beauty and gracefulness are beyond description, and she will also be miserable because her father’s wealth is placing her already at the edge of a horrible precipice.” <br /><br />As he uttered these words, I noticed that his face clouded. Then he continued, “Farris Effandi is a good old man with a noble heart, but he lacks will power. People lead him like a blind man. His daughter obeys him in spite of her pride and intelligence, and this is the secret which lurks in the life of father and daughter. This secret was discovered by an evil man who is a bishop and whose wickedness hides in the shadow of his Gospel. He makes the people believe that he is kind and noble. He is the head of religion in this land of the religions. The people obey and worship him. he leads them like a flock of lambs to the slaughter house. This bishop has a nephew who is full of hatefulness and corruption. The day will come sooner or later when he will place his nephew on his right and Farris Effandi’s daughter on this left, and, holding with his evil hand the wreath of matrimony over their heads, will tie a pure virgin to a filthy degenerate, placing the heart of the day in the bosom of the night. <br /><br />That is all I can tell you about Farris Effandi and his daughter, so do not ask me any more questions.” <br /><br />Saying this, he turned his head toward the window as if he were trying to solve the problems of human existence by concentrating on the beauty of the universe. <br /><br />As I left the house I told my friend that I was going to visit Farris Effandi in a few days for the purpose of fulfilling my promise and for the sake of the friendship which had joined him and my father. He stared at me for a moment, and I noticed a change in his expression as if my few simple words had revealed to him a new idea. Then he looked straight through my eyes in a strange manner, a look of love, mercy, and fear – the look of a prophet who foresees what no one else can divine. Then his lips trembled a little, but he said nothing when I started towards the door. That strange look followed me, the meaning of which I could not understand until I grew up in the world of experience, where hearts understand each other intuitively and where spirits are mature with knowledge. </div>Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-3311781103525008812010-12-17T15:14:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.207+08:00SILENT SORROWMy neighbours, you remember the dawn of youth with pleasure and regret its passing; but I remember it like a prisoner who recalls the bars and shackles of his jail. You speak of those years between infancy and youth as a golden era free from confinement and cares, but I call those years an era of silent sorrow which dropped as a seed into my heart and grew with it and could find no outlet to the world of Knowledge and wisdom until love came and opened the heart’s doors and lighted its corners. Love provided me with a tongue and tears. You people remember the gardens and orchids and the meeting places and street corners that witnessed your games and heard your innocent whispering; and I remember, too, the beautiful spot in North Lebanon. Every time I close my eyes I see those valleys full of magic and dignity and those mountains covered with glory and greatness trying to reach the sky. Every time I shut my ears to the clamour of the city I hear the murmur of the rivulets and the rustling of the branches. All those beauties which I speak of now and which I long to see, as a child longs for his mother’s breast, wounded my spirit, imprisoned in the darkness of youth, as a falcon suffers in its cage when it sees a flock of birds flying freely in the spacious sky. Those valleys and hills fired my imagination, but bitter thoughts wove round my heart a net of hopelessness. <br /><br />Every time I went to the fields I returned disappointed, without understanding the cause of my disappointment. Every time I looked at the grey sky I felt my heart contract. Every time I heard the singing of the birds and babbling of the spring I suffered without understanding the reason for my suffering. It is said that unsophistication makes a man empty and that emptiness makes him carefree. It may be true among those who were born dead and who exist like frozen corpses; but the sensitive boy who feels much and knows little is the most unfortunate creature under the sun, because he is torn by two forces. the first force elevates him and shows him the beauty of existence through a cloud of dreams; the second ties him down to the earth and fills his eyes with dust and overpowers him with fears and darkness. <br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow. Solitude is the ally of sorrow as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation. <br /><br />The boy’s soul undergoing the buffeting of sorrow is like a white lily just unfolding. It trembles before the breeze and opens its heart to day break and folds its leaves back when the shadow of night comes. If that boy does not have diversion or friends or companions in his games his life will be like a narrow prison in which he sees nothing but spider webs and hears nothing but the crawling of insects. <br /><br />That sorrow which obsessed me during my youth was not caused by lack of amusement, because I could have had it; neither from lack of friends, because I could have found them. That sorrow was caused by an inward ailment which made me love solitude. It killed in me the inclination for games and amusement. It removed from my shoulders the wings of youth and made me like a pong of water between mountains which reflects in its calm surface the shadows of ghosts and the colours of clouds and trees, but cannot find an outlet by which to pass singing to the sea. <br /><br />Thus was my life before I attained the age of eighteen. That year is like a mountain peak in my life, for it awakened knowledge in me and made me understand the vicissitudes of mankind. In that year I was reborn and unless a person is born again his life will remain like a blank sheet in the book of existence. In that year, I saw the angels of heaven looking at me through the eyes of a beautiful woman. I also saw the devils of hell raging in the heart of an evil man. He who does not see the angels and devils in the beauty and malice of life will be far removed from knowledge, and his spirit will be empty of affection.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-44430151649208929142010-12-17T15:12:00.001+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.207+08:00FOREWORDI was eighteen years of age when love opened my eyes with its magic rays and touched my spirit for the first time with its fiery fingers, and Selma Karamy was the first woman who awakened my spirit with her beauty and led me into the garden of high affection, where days pass like dreams and nights like weddings. <br /><br />Selma Karamy was the one who taught me to worship beauty by the example of her own beauty and revealed to me the secret of love by her affection; se was the one who first sang to me the poetry of real life. <br /><br />Every young man remembers his first love and tries to recapture that strange hour, the memory of which changes his deepest feeling and makes him so happy in spite of all the bitterness of its mystery. <br /><br />In every young man’s life there is a “Selma” who appears to him suddenly while in the spring of life and transforms his solitude into happy moments and fills the silence of his nights with music. <br /><br />I was deeply engrossed in thought and contemplation and seeking to understand the meaning of nature and the revelation of books and scriptures when I heard LOVE whispered into my ears through Selma’s lips. My life was a coma, empty like that of Adam’s in Paradise, when I saw Selma standing before me like a column of light. She was the Eve of my heart who filled it with secrets and wonders and made me understand the meaning of life. <br /><br />The first Eve led Adam out of Paradise by her own will, while Selma made me enter willingly into the paradise of pure love and virtue by her sweetness and love; but what happened to the first man also happened to me, and the fiery word which chased Adam out of Paradise was like the one which frightened me by its glittering edge and forced me away from paradise of my love without having disobeyed any order or tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree. <br /><br />Today, after many years have passed, I have nothing left out of that beautiful dream except painful memories flapping like invisible wings around me, filling the depths of my heart with sorrow, and bringing tears to my eyes; and my beloved, beautiful Selma, is dead and nothing is left to commemorate her except my broken heart and tomb surrounded by cypress trees. That tomb and this heart are all that is left to bear witness of Selma. <br /><br />The silence that guards the tomb does not reveal God’s secret in the obscurity of the coffin, and the rustling of the branches whose roots suck the body’s elements do not tell the mysteries of the grave, by the agonized sighs of my heart announce to the living the drama which love, beauty, and death have performed. <br /><br />Oh, friends of my youth who are scattered in the city of Beirut, when you pass by the cemetery near the pine forest, enter it silently and walk slowly so the tramping of your feet will not disturb the slumber of the dead, and stop humbly by Selma’s tomb and greet the earth that encloses her corpse and mention my name with deep sigh and say to yourself, “here, all the hopes of Gibran, who is living as prisoner of love beyond the seas, were buried. On this spot he lost his happiness, drained his tears, and forgot his smile.” <br /><br />By that tomb grows Gibran’s sorrow together with the cypress trees, and above the tomb his spirit flickers every night commemorating Selma, joining the branches of the trees in sorrowful wailing, mourning and lamenting the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a beautiful tune on the lips of life and today is a silent secret in the bosom of the earth. <br /><br />Oh, comrades of my youth! I appeal to you in the names of those virgins whom your hearts have loved, to lay a wreath of flowers on the forsaken tomb of my beloved, for the flowers you lay on Selma’s tomb are like falling drops of dew for the eyes of dawn on the leaves of withering rose.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-68352516284456533722010-12-17T15:12:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.207+08:00FOREWORDI was eighteen years of age when love opened my eyes with its magic rays and touched my spirit for the first time with its fiery fingers, and Selma Karamy was the first woman who awakened my spirit with her beauty and led me into the garden of high affection, where days pass like dreams and nights like weddings. <br /><br />Selma Karamy was the one who taught me to worship beauty by the example of her own beauty and revealed to me the secret of love by her affection; se was the one who first sang to me the poetry of real life. <br /><br />Every young man remembers his first love and tries to recapture that strange hour, the memory of which changes his deepest feeling and makes him so happy in spite of all the bitterness of its mystery. <br /><br />In every young man’s life there is a “Selma” who appears to him suddenly while in the spring of life and transforms his solitude into happy moments and fills the silence of his nights with music. <br /><br />I was deeply engrossed in thought and contemplation and seeking to understand the meaning of nature and the revelation of books and scriptures when I heard LOVE whispered into my ears through Selma’s lips. My life was a coma, empty like that of Adam’s in Paradise, when I saw Selma standing before me like a column of light. She was the Eve of my heart who filled it with secrets and wonders and made me understand the meaning of life. <br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />The first Eve led Adam out of Paradise by her own will, while Selma made me enter willingly into the paradise of pure love and virtue by her sweetness and love; but what happened to the first man also happened to me, and the fiery word which chased Adam out of Paradise was like the one which frightened me by its glittering edge and forced me away from paradise of my love without having disobeyed any order or tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree. <br /><br />Today, after many years have passed, I have nothing left out of that beautiful dream except painful memories flapping like invisible wings around me, filling the depths of my heart with sorrow, and bringing tears to my eyes; and my beloved, beautiful Selma, is dead and nothing is left to commemorate her except my broken heart and tomb surrounded by cypress trees. That tomb and this heart are all that is left to bear witness of Selma. <br /><br />The silence that guards the tomb does not reveal God’s secret in the obscurity of the coffin, and the rustling of the branches whose roots suck the body’s elements do not tell the mysteries of the grave, by the agonized sighs of my heart announce to the living the drama which love, beauty, and death have performed. <br /><br />Oh, friends of my youth who are scattered in the city of Beirut, when you pass by the cemetery near the pine forest, enter it silently and walk slowly so the tramping of your feet will not disturb the slumber of the dead, and stop humbly by Selma’s tomb and greet the earth that encloses her corpse and mention my name with deep sigh and say to yourself, “here, all the hopes of Gibran, who is living as prisoner of love beyond the seas, were buried. On this spot he lost his happiness, drained his tears, and forgot his smile.” <br /><br />By that tomb grows Gibran’s sorrow together with the cypress trees, and above the tomb his spirit flickers every night commemorating Selma, joining the branches of the trees in sorrowful wailing, mourning and lamenting the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a beautiful tune on the lips of life and today is a silent secret in the bosom of the earth. <br /><br />Oh, comrades of my youth! I appeal to you in the names of those virgins whom your hearts have loved, to lay a wreath of flowers on the forsaken tomb of my beloved, for the flowers you lay on Selma’s tomb are like falling drops of dew for the eyes of dawn on the leaves of withering rose.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-78871114990645249072010-12-17T14:53:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.207+08:00A MAN FROM LEBANON<div align="center"><i>Nineteen Centuries Afterward</i></div><br />Master, master singer, <br /><br />Master of words unspoken, <br />Seven times was I born, and seven times have I died <br />Since your last hasty visit and our brief welcome. <br />And behold I live again, <br />Remembering a day and a night among the hills, <br />When your tide lifted us up. <br />Thereafter many lands and many seas did I cross, <br />And wherever I was led by saddle or sail <br />Your name was prayer or argument. <br />Men would bless you or curse you; <br />The curse, a protest against failure, <br />The blessing, a hymn of the hunter <br />Who comes back from the hills <br />With provision for his mate. <br /><br />Your friends are yet with us for comfort and support, <br />And your enemies also, for strength and assurance. <br />Your mother is with us; <br />I have beheld the sheen of her face in the countenance of all mothers; <br />Her hand rocks cradles with gentleness, <br />Her hand folds shrouds with tenderness. <br />And Mary Magdalene is yet in our midst, <br />She who drank the vinegar of life, and then its wine. <br />And Judas, the man of pain and small ambitions, <br />He too walks the earth; <br />Even now he preys upon himself when his hunger find naught else, <br />And seeks his larger self in self-destruction. <br /><br />And John, he whose youth loved beauty, is here, <br />And he sings though unheeded. <br />And Simon Peter the impetuous, who denied you that he might live <br />longer for you, <br />He too sits by our fire. <br />He may deny you again ere the dawn of another day, <br />Yet he would be crucified for your purpose, and deem himself unworthy <br />of the honour. <br />And Caiaphas and Annas still live their day, <br />And judge the guilty and the innocent. <br />They sleep upon their feathered bed <br />Whilst he whom they have judged is whipped with the rods. <br /><br />And the woman who was taken in adultery, <br />She too walks the streets of our cities, <br />And hungers for bread not yet baked, <br />And she is alone in an empty house. <br />And Pontius Pilatus is here also: <br />He stands in awe before you, <br />And still questions you, <br />But he dares not risk his station or defy an alien race; <br />And he is still washing his hands. <br />Even now Jerusalem holds the basin and Rome the ewer, <br />And betwixt the two thousand thousand hands would be washed to <br />whiteness. <br /><br />Master, Master Poet, <br />Master of words sung and spoken, <br />They have builded temples to house your name, <br />And upon every height they have raised your cross, <br />A sign and a symbol to guide their wayward feet, <br />But not unto your joy. <br />Your joy is a hill beyond their vision, <br />And it does not comfort them. <br />They would honour the man unknown to them. <br />And what consolation is there in a man like themselves, a man whose <br />kindliness is like their own kindliness, <br />A god whose love is like their own love, <br />And whose mercy is in their own mercy? <br />They honour not the man, the living man, <br />The first man who opened His eyes and gazed at the sun <br />With eyelids unquivering. <br />Nay, they do not know Him, and they would not be like Him. <br /><br /> <span style="font-size: small;">*</span><br /><br />They would be unknown, walking in the procession of the unknown. <br />They would bear sorrow, their sorrow, <br />And they would not find comfort in your joy. <br />Their aching heart seeks not consolation in your words and the song <br />thereof. <br />And their pain, silent and unshapen, <br />Makes them creatures lonely and unvisited. <br />Though hemmed about my kin and kind, <br />They live in fear, uncomraded; <br />Yet they would not be alone. <br />They would bend eastward when the west wind blows. <br /><br />They call you king, <br />And they would be in your court. <br />They pronounce you the Messiah, <br />And they would themselves be anointed with the holy oil. <br />Yea, they would live upon your life. <br /><br />Master, Master Singer, <br />Your tears were like the showers of May, <br />And your laughter like the waves of the white sea. <br />When you spoke your words were the far-off whisper of their lips when <br />those lips should be kindled with fire; <br />You laughed for the marrow in their bones that was not yet ready for <br />laughter; <br />And you wept for their eyes that yet were dry. <br />Your voice fathered their thoughts and their understanding. <br />Your voice mothered their words and their breath. <br /><br />Seven times was I born and seven times have I died, <br />And now I live again, and I behold you, <br />The fighter among fighters, <br />The poet of poets <br />King above all kings, <br />A man half-naked with your road-fellows. <br />Every day the bishop bends down his head <br />When he pronounces your name. <br />And every day the beggars say: <br />“For Jesus’ sake <br />Give us a penny to buy bread.” <br />We call upon each other, <br />But in truth we call upon you, <br />Like the flood tide in the spring of our want and desire, <br />And when our autumn comes, like the ebb tide. <br />High or low, your name is upon our lips, <br />The Master of infinite compassion. <br /><br />Master, Master of our lonely hours, <br />Here and there, betwixt the cradle and the coffin, I meet your silent <br />brothers, <br />The free men, unshackled, <br />Sons of your mother earth and space. <br />They are like the birds of the sky, <br />And like the lilies of the field. <br />They live your life and think your thoughts, <br />And they echo your song. <br />But they are empty-handed, <br />And they are not crucified with the great crucifixion, <br />And therein is their pain. <br />The world crucifies them every day, <br />But only in little ways. <br />The sky is not shaken, <br />And the earth travails not with her dead. <br />They are crucified and there is none to witness their agony. <br />They turn their face to right and left <br />And find not one to promise them a station in his kingdom. <br />Yet they would be crucified again and yet again, <br />That your God may be their God, <br />And your Father their Father. <br /><br />Master, Master Lover, <br />The Princess awaits your coming in her fragrant chamber, <br />And the married unmarried woman in her cage; <br />The harlot who seeks bread in the streets of her shame, <br />And the nun in her cloister who has no husband; <br />The childless woman too at her window, <br />Where frost designs the forest on the pane, <br />She finds you in that symmetry, <br />And she would mother you, and be comforted. <br /><br />Master, Master Poet, <br />Master of our silent desires, <br />The heart of the world quivers with the throbbing of your heart, <br />But it burns not with your song. <br />The world sits listening to your voice in tranquil delight, <br />But it rises not from its seat <br />To scale the ridges of your hills. <br />Man would dream your dream but he would not wake to your dawn <br />Which is his greater dream. <br />He would see with your vision, <br />But he would not drag his heavy feet to your throne. <br />Yet many have been enthroned inn your name <br />And mitred with your power, <br />And have turned your golden visit <br />Into crowns for their head and sceptres for their hand. <br /><br />Master, Master of Light, <br />Whose eye dwells in the seeking fingers of the blind, <br />You are still despised and mocked, <br />A man too weak and infirm to be God, <br />A God too much man to call forth adoration. <br />Their mass and their hymn, <br />Their sacrament and their rosary, are for their imprisoned self. <br />You are their yet distant self, their far-off cry, and their passion. <br /><br />But Master, Sky-heart, Knight of our fairer dream, <br />You do still tread this day; <br />Nor bows nor spears shall stay your steps. <br />You walk through all our arrows. <br />You smile down upon us, <br />And though you are the youngest of us all <br />You father us all. <br /><br />Poet, Singer, Great Heart, <br />May our God bless your name, <br />And the womb that held you, and the breasts that gave you milk. <br />And may God forgive us all. <br />jDj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-49860430953969274032010-12-17T14:52:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.207+08:00MARY MAGDALEN THIRTY YEARS LATER<div align="center"><i>On the Resurrection of the Spirit</i></div><br />Once again I say that with death Jesus conquered death, and rose from the grave a spirit and a power. And He walked in our solitude and visited the gardens of our passion. <br /><br />He lies not there in that cleft rock behind the stone. <br /><br />We who love Him beheld Him with these our eyes which He made to see; and we touched Him with these our hands which He taught to reach forth. <br /><br />I know you who believe not in Him. I was one of you, and you are many; but your number shall be diminished. <br /><br />Must your break your harp and your lyre to find the music therein? <br /><br />Or must you fell a tree ere you can believe it bears fruit? <br /><br />You hate Jesus because someone from the North Country said He was the Son of God. But you hate one another because each of you deems himself too great to be the brother of the next man. <br /><br />You hate Him because someone said He was born of a virgin, and not of man’s seed. <br /><br />But you know not the mothers who go to the tomb in virginity, nor the men who go down to the grave choked with their own thirst. <br /><br />You know not that the earth was given in marriage to the sun, and that earth it is who sends us forth to the mountain and the desert. <br /><br />There is a gulf that yawns between those who love Him and those who hate Him, between those who believe and those who do not believe. <br /><br />But when the years have bridged that gulf you shall know that He who lived in us is deathless, that He was the Son of God even as we are the children of God; that He was born of a virgin even as we are born of the husbandless earth. <br /><br />It is passing strange that the earth gives not to the unbelievers the roots that would suck at her breast, nor the wings wherewith to fly high and drink, and be filled with the dews of her space. <br /><br />But I know what I know, and it is enough.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-11281862552500518402010-12-17T14:51:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.208+08:00THE WOMAN OF BYBLOS<div align="center"><i>A Lamentation</i></div><br />Weep with me, ye daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz, Bid your heart melt and rise and run blood-tears, For He who was made of gold and ivory is no more. <br /><br />In the dark forest the boar overcame Him, And the tusks of the boar pierced His flesh. Now He lies stained with the leaves of yesteryear, And no longer shall His footsteps wake the seeds that sleep in the bosom of the spring. His voice will not come with the dawn to my window, And I shall be forever alone. <br /><br />Weep with me, ye daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz, For my Beloved has escaped me; He who spoke as the rivers speak; He whose voice and time were twins; He whose mouth was a red pain made sweet; He on whose lips gall would turn to honey. <br /><br />Weep with me, daughters of Ashtarte, and ye lovers of Tamouz. Weep with me around His bier as the stars weep, And as the moon-petals fall upon His wounded body. Wet with your tears the silken covers of my bed, Where my Beloved once lay in my dream, And was gone away in my awakening. <br /><br />I charge ye, daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz, Bare your breasts and weep and comfort me, For Jesus of Nazareth is dead.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-33378489451855400432010-12-17T14:50:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.208+08:00CYBOREA<div align="center"><i>The Mother of Judas</i></div><br />My son was a good man and upright. He was tender and kind to me, and he loved his kin and his countrymen. And he hated our enemies, the cursed Romans, who wear purple cloth though they spin no thread nor sit at any loom; and who reap and gather where they have not ploughed nor sowed the seed. <br /><br />My son was but seventeen when he was caught shooting arrows at the Roman legion passing through our vineyard. <br /><br />Even at that age he would speak to the other youths of the glory of Israel, and he would utter many strange things that I did not understand. <br /><br />He was my son, my only son. <br /><br />He drank life from these breasts now dry, and he took his first steps in this garden, grasping these fingers that are now like trembling reeds. <br /><br />With these selfsame hands, young and fresh then like the grapes of Lebanon, I put away his first sandals in a linen kerchief that my mother had given me. I still keep them there in that chest, beside the window. <br /><br />He was my first-born, and when he took his first step, I too took my first step. For women travel not save when led by their children. <br /><br />And now they tell me he is dead by his own hand; that he flung himself from the High Rock in remorse because he had betrayed his friend Jesus of Nazareth. <br /><br />I know my son is dead. But I know he betrayed no one; for he loved his kin and hated none but the Romans. <br /><br />My son sought the glory of Israel, and naught but that glory was upon his lips and in his deeds. <br /><br />When he met Jesus on the highway he left me to follow Him. And in my heart I knew that he was wrong to follow any man. <br /><br />When he bade me farewell I told him that he was wrong, but he listened not. <br /><br />Our children do not heed us; like the high tide of today, they take no counsel with the high tide of yesterday. <br /><br />I beg you question me no further about my son. <br /><br />I loved him and I shall love him forevermore. <br /><br />If love were in the flesh I would burn it out with hot irons and be at peace. But it is in the soul, unreachable. <br /><br />And now I would speak no more. Go question another woman more honoured than the mother of Judas. <br /><br />Go to the mother of Jesus. The sword is in her heart also; she will tell you of me, and you will understand.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1859518442607575091.post-18034117092922408812010-12-17T14:48:00.000+08:002011-05-04T19:28:24.208+08:00SIMON THE CYRENE<div align="center"><i>He who Carried the Cross</i></div><br />I was on my way to the fields when I saw Him carrying His cross; and multitudes were following Him. <br /><br />Then I too walked beside Him. <br /><br />His burden stopped Him many a time, for His body was exhausted. <br /><br />Then a Roman soldier approached me, saying, “Come, you are strong and firm built; carry the cross of this man.” <br /><br />When I heard these words my heart swelled within me and I was grateful. <br /><br />And I carried His cross. <br /><br />It was heavy, for it was made of poplar soaked through with the rains of winter. <br /><br />And Jesus looked at me. And the sweat of His forehead was running down upon His beard. <br /><br />Again He looked at me and He said, “Do you too drink this cup? You shall indeed sip its rim with me to the end of time.” <br /><br />So saying He placed His hand upon my free shoulder. And we walked together towards the Hill of the Skull. <br /><br />But now I felt not the weight of the cross. I felt only His hand. And it was like the wing of a bird upon my shoulder. <br /><br />Then we reached the hill top, and there they were to crucify Him. <br /><br />And then I felt the weight of the tree. <br /><br />He uttered no word when they drove the nails into His hands and feet, nor made He any sound. <br /><br />And His limbs did not quiver under the hammer. <br /><br />It seemed as if His hands and feet had died and would only live again when bathed in blood. Yet it seemed also as if He sought the nails as the prince would seek the sceptre; and that He craved to be raised to the heights. <br /><br />And my heart did not think to pity Him, for I was too filled to wonder. <br /><br />Now, the man whose cross I carried has become my cross. <br /><br />Should they say to me again, “Carry the cross of this man,” I would carry it till my road ended at the grave. <br /><br />But I would beg Him to place His hand upon my shoulder. <br /><br />This happened many years ago; and still whenever I follow the furrow in the field, and in that drowsy moment before sleep, I think always of that Beloved Man. <br /><br />And I feel His winged hand, here, on my left shoulder.Dj Surendenghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09764459029415919962noreply@blogger.com