tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61235690866956492022012-02-03T22:24:25.887-08:001883-1931 Poet, Philosopher, and ArtislLefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.comBlogger1521100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-61418837643979690592011-10-22T00:30:00.000-07:002011-10-22T00:32:14.605-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w5obGmgF8sw/TqJxLw0RECI/AAAAAAAAQGg/nkS8VvBWrMw/s1600/how-to-draw-realistic-faces-step-9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w5obGmgF8sw/TqJxLw0RECI/AAAAAAAAQGg/nkS8VvBWrMw/s400/how-to-draw-realistic-faces-step-9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666215728082128930" /></a><br /><div><div><br /></div><div>Με χίλιες όψεις πρόσωπο μου 'τυχε να 'χω δει, </div><div>και πρόσωπο μ' ανάλλαχτη τη μια και μόνη του όψη, </div><div>σαν εκμαγείο που κρατουν πολλοί (στερνή φυγή ...)</div><div>όταν το δρέπανο του χάρου τον καρπό έχει κόψει. </div><div><br /></div><div>Έχω απαντήσει πρόσωπο, </div><div>που μπόρεσα να δω </div><div>μέσ' απ' την έξω λάμψη του, </div><div>της ασκήμιας τα βύθια, </div><div>και πρόσωπο που χρειάστηκε </div><div>ν' αποκαλύψω οδό στις λάμψες του, </div><div>την ομορφιά για να χαρώ στ'αλήθεια. </div><div><br /></div><div>Γέρικο πρόσωπο έχω δει, </div><div>περγαμηνή σωστή, </div><div>που τίποτα δεν εγραφε πια για τα περασμένα, </div><div>κι αντάμωσα λείο πρόσωπο, </div><div>σωστά που αν διβαστεί </div><div>για, πράξεις και για πράγματα, </div><div>τα πάντα έχει γραμμένα. </div><div><br /></div><div>Τα πρόσωπα γνωρίζω εγώ </div><div>γιατί κοιτάζω πίσω </div><div>απ' του δικού μου του ματιού, </div><div>που υφαίνεται,την πλέξη· </div><div>κι ότι γραμμένο κι άγραφο </div><div>χαρτί σαν ατενίσω, </div><div>πραγματικότητες πεζές βγάζω: </div><div>λέξη πρός λέξη.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6141883764397969059?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-53782730579863807212011-09-13T21:43:00.000-07:002011-09-13T22:09:17.694-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-STbbwtFkHi8/TnA2OqnqAbI/AAAAAAAAP1g/xy7Yc4pXslU/s1600/Van-Gogh-Starry-Night-over-Rhone.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-STbbwtFkHi8/TnA2OqnqAbI/AAAAAAAAP1g/xy7Yc4pXslU/s400/Van-Gogh-Starry-Night-over-Rhone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652077157936660914" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, σκοτεινός και γυµνός· </div><div>περπατώ στο φλογοστρωµένο µονοπάτι </div><div>που είναι πάνου από τους οπτασιασµούς µου, </div><div>κι οποτεδήποτε το πόδι µου αγγίζει χώµα </div><div>µια γιγάντισσα Βαλανιδιά φυτρώνει. </div><div><br /></div><div>-'Όχι, δεν είσαι σαν εµένα, ω, Τρελέ, </div><div>γιατί εσύ ακόµα πισωκοιτάζεις, </div><div>να δεις πόσο τρανό 'ναι τ' αχνάρι του ποδιου σου </div><div>π'αφηκες στην αµµο. </div><div><br /></div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, σιγηλός και βαθύς· </div><div>και στην καρδιά της µοναξιάς µου </div><div>πλαγιάζει µια Θεά, σε - γέννας µιας - κρεβάτι. </div><div>Και γι' αυτό που γεννιέται ο ουρανός αγγίζει την Κόλαση. </div><div><br /></div><div>-'Όχι, δεν είσαι σαν εµένα, ω, Τρελέ, </div><div>γιατί εσύ φρικιάς ακόµα µπρος στον πόνο, </div><div>και το τραγούδι της άβυσσος τρόµους σου φέρνει.</div><div><br /></div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ,ω, Νύχτα, άγριος και φοβερός· </div><div>γιατί στ' αφτιά µου µυρµηγκιάζουν </div><div>οι κραυγές εθνών κατακτηµένων</div><div>κι αναστενάγµατα λησµονηµένων τόπων. </div><div><br /></div><div>-'Όχι, δεν είσαι σαν εµένα, ω, Τρελέ, </div><div>γιατί εσύ ακόµα παίρνεις τον µικρο-εαυτό σου, για σύντροφο, </div><div>και δεν µπορεις να φιλιώσεις µε τον τερατώδικο-εαυτό σου.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, σκληρός κι απαίσιος' </div><div>γιατί τα στήθια µου πυρακτώνουνται </div><div>από φλεγόµενα καράβια στη θάλασσα, </div><div>και είναι µατοβαµµένα τα χείλια µου, </div><div>από αιµατα πολεµιστων σφαγµένων. </div><div><br /></div><div>-'Όχι, δεν είσαι σαν εµένα, ω, Τρελέ' </div><div>γιατί η αποθυµιά για µια αδερφή ψυχή ακόµα σε δυναστεύει </div><div>κι εσύ δεν έχεις γίνει ακόµα αυτονόµος, για σένα. </div><div><br /></div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, χαρωπός κι ευτυχισµένος' </div><div>γιατί κείνος που κατοικεί στη σκιά µου </div><div>είναι τώρα µεθυσµένος µε παρθενικό κρασί, αγιοσύνης, </div><div>κι εκείνη που µε ακολουθει αµαρταίνει περίχαρα.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>-'Όχι, δεν είσαι σαν εµένα, ω, Τρελέ, </div><div>γιατί η ψυχή σου διπλωµένη είναι, σ' εφτάδιπλα πέπλα, </div><div>και δεν κρατάς την καρδιά σου στο ιδιο σου το χέρι.</div><div><br /></div><div>-Είµαι σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, υποµονετικός κι όλο πάθος' </div><div>γιατί στα στήθια µου: µια χιλιάδα νεκροί εραστές, </div><div>είναι θαµµένοι - σαβανωµένοι µε φιλιά µαραµένα.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>-Ναί, Τρελέ, είσαι σαν εµένα; </div><div>Είσαι σαν εµένα; </div><div>Και µπορεις εσύ να ιππέψεις την καταιγίδα σαν άτι,</div><div>και ν'αδράξεις τον κεραυνό σα σπαθί; </div><div><br /></div><div>-Σαν εσέ, ω, Νύχτα, σαν εσέ, δυνατός κι αψηλός, </div><div>κι ο θρόνος µου είναι θεµελιωµένος πάνω σε σωρούς πεσµένων Θεων· </div><div>κι ακόµα, µπροστά µου διαβαίνουν οι µέρες </div><div>για να φιλήσουν τον ακρόγυρο του µανδύα µου, </div><div>µα ουδέποτε για ν' ατενίσουν το πρόσωπό µου. </div><div><br /></div><div>-Είσαι σαν εµέ, παιδί της πιό σκοταδιασµένης καρδιάς µου; </div><div>Και σκέφτεσαι τις πιο ακαταδάµαστες σκέψεις µου </div><div>και µιλας τή γιγάντισσα γλώσσα µου; </div><div><br /></div><div>-Ναι, είµαστε δίδυµα αδέρφια, ω, Νύχτα· </div><div>γιατί εσύ αποκαλύπτεις το διάστηµα </div><div>κι εγώ την ψυχή µου. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5378273057986380721?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-68513418755737194932011-09-13T09:26:00.000-07:002011-09-13T09:28:02.125-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w5k8TNtUqEY/Tm-ELq5XHXI/AAAAAAAAP04/kxTReFKxilk/s1600/249334.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w5k8TNtUqEY/Tm-ELq5XHXI/AAAAAAAAP04/kxTReFKxilk/s400/249334.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651881393401568626" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><div>'Hττα,Ήττα µου, µοναξιά µου κι ερηµιά µου· </div><div>Είσαι για µε ακριβότερη κι από θριάµβους χίλιους, </div><div>Και στην καρδιά µου γλυκύτερη, απ'του κόσµου όλη τη δόξα. </div><div><br /></div><div>'Ηττα, 'Ηττα µου, αυτογνωσία κι αψηφισιά µου,</div><div> </div><div>Ξέρω, µ' αφορµή δική σου, </div><div>πως είµαι νέος ακόµα και γοργοπόδαρος </div><div>Κι απαγίδευτος σε µαραµένες δάφνες.</div><div>Και µέσα σου βρήκα µοναξιας απάγκειο.</div><div>Και τη χαρά 'κείνου: π'αποφεύγεται και που καταφρονιέται</div><div> </div><div>Ήττα,'Ηττα µου, αστραπόβολο σπαθί κι ασπίδα µου,</div><div> </div><div>Στα µάτια τα δικά σου διάβασα </div><div>Πως ενθρονισµένος, θα πει σκλαβωµένος,</div><div>Και καταληπτός, ισοπεδωµένος, </div><div>Και αδραγµένος, δε σηµαίνει άλλο παρά ολοκληρωµένος </div><div>Όταν πια σαν ώριµο φρούτο, πέφτεις ανάλωµα.</div><div> </div><div>Ήττα,'Ήττα µου, τολµηρέ µου σύντροφε,</div><div> </div><div>Θ'ακούσεις και τα τραγούδια µου και τις κραυγές µου και τις σιωπές µου,</div><div>Εσύ κι άλλος κανένας, θα µου µιλάς για φτερουγίσµατα, </div><div>Και για θαλασσινές βιασύνες, </div><div>Και για βουνά που λαµπαδιάζουν µες στη νύχτα, </div><div>Και µόνο εσύ θα σκαρφαλώσεις, την απότοµη </div><div>και βραχόσπαρτη ψυχή µου. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ήττα,Ήττα µου, αθάνατο θάρρος µου,</div><div> </div><div>Συ κι εγώ θα γελάµε µαζί, µε την καταιγίδα, </div><div>Και θα σκάψουµε τάφους για κείνα όλα </div><div>που πεθαίνουν µέσα µας, </div><div>Και θα στεκόµαστε αποφασιστικά στον ήλιο, </div><div>Και θα είµαστε επικίνδυνοι.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6851341875573719493?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-25630066772211451022011-09-13T08:57:00.000-07:002011-09-13T09:03:51.338-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6p99yFp19h4/Tm99s9S0ACI/AAAAAAAAP0w/-261Wh37bDE/s1600/good-vs-bad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 232px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6p99yFp19h4/Tm99s9S0ACI/AAAAAAAAP0w/-261Wh37bDE/s400/good-vs-bad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651874268694446114" /></a><br /><div>Ο Καλός Θεός κι o Κακός Θεός </div><div>- µέ διάφορον αγέρα ­</div><div>ανταµώθηκαν σε κορφή βουνου, </div><div>την πιο µεγάλη. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ο Καλός Θεός είπε: </div><div>-Αδελφέ, Καλή σου κι 'Αγια µέρα.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ο Κακός Θεός δεν άνοιξε στόµα, µιλιά να βγάλει.</div><div> </div><div>Ο Καλός Θεός λέει: </div><div>-Στις κακές σου πάλι! </div><div>-Ποιά η Ιστορία; </div><div>-Να, είπ' ο Κακός,</div><div>γιατί συχνά µε παίρνουνε για σένα,τ'όνοµά σου,</div><div>µου δίνουν και την προς εσέ λατρεία, </div><div>κι αυτό µε κάνει να υποφέρω τρισαπελπισµένα. </div><div><br /></div><div>Κι ο Καλός Θεός </div><div>-Μη χολοσκας για τέτοιες άρες µάρες.</div><div> Μήπως, µε τ' όνοµά σου εµένα δεν καλούν τα πλήθη;</div><div> </div><div>Κι ο Κακός Θεός φεύγει </div><div>σκορπώντας χίλιες δυο κατάρες </div><div>για τη βλακεία που,</div><div>δίδυµη µε τους θνητούς, γεννήθη.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2563006677221145102?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-68632978703397091932011-02-15T03:45:00.001-08:002011-08-23T07:53:48.597-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-olVJHg0JdEI/TVpowY78rnI/AAAAAAAAOdA/uM6OFj11JoU/s1600/109.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-olVJHg0JdEI/TVpowY78rnI/AAAAAAAAOdA/uM6OFj11JoU/s400/109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573882669361311346" border="0" /></a> <br />Σαν ήμουν στον καιρό της νιότης μου είχαν πει πως σε κάποια πολιτεία ζουσαν όλοι οι άνθρωποι μ' οδηγήτρες τους τις Γραφές. <br /> <br />Κι είπα: <br />«Θ' αναζητήσω αυτή την πόλη, να χαρώ την ευλογία της». <br /> <br /> <br />Κι ήταν μακριά πολύ. Κι έκανα γερή κουμπάνια για το ταξίδι μου. <br />Και μετά σαράντα μέρες ξεδιάκρινα την πόλη, και στις σαράντα μέρες και μια, σ' αυτήν εμπήκα. <br /> <br />Και τι να δω! <br />Το σύνολο από τους κάτοικους της πόλης, ήταν άτομα που δεν είχαν παρά μόνο ένα μάτι κι ένα χέρι. <br />Κι εμβρόντητος μονολόγησα: <br />«Μπορεί σε μια τόσο άγια πόλη οι άνθρωποι να μην έχουν παρά ένα μάτι κι ένα χέρι;» <br /> <br />Τότε πρόσεξα πως κι εκείνοι είχαν μείνει κατάπληχτοι, <br />απορώντας πολύ, για τα δυο μου μάτια και τα δυο μου χέρια. <br /> <br />Και καθώς αντάλλαζαν κουβέντες, μεταξύ τους, τους ρώτησα: <br />«Eίναι στ' αλήθεια αυτή η Βλογημένη Πολιτεία, που καθένας ζει μ' οδηγήτρες του τις Γραφές;» <br /> <br />Και μου απάντησαν: «Ναι, αυτή 'ναι». <br /> <br />«Και τι συφορά σας βρήκε», είπα, «τι έγιναν τα δεξιά σας μάτια και τα δεξιά σας χέρια;» <br /> <br />Κι όλος Ο λαός μπήκε σε κίνηση. <br />Κι είπανε: «'Έλα, να δεις» .. <br /> <br />Και με πήγαν στο ναό, καταμεσής στην πόλη. <br /> <br />Και μέσα στο ναό είδα: σωρό χέρια και μάτια. <br />Σα φύλλα μαδημένα. <br /> <br />Και τότες είπα: «Αλίμονο! Ποιός κουρσευτής πρόσταξε, τέτοια σκληρότητα, σε βάρος σας;» <br /> <br />Και, ψίθυρος υψώθηκε σαν κύμα ανάμεσό τους. <br /> <br />Κι ένας από τους πρεσβύτερους βγήκε μπροστά από όλους κι είπε: <br />«Είναι αυτοπραξία μας. <br /> <br />Ο Θεός μας έκανε κουρσευτές πάνω στο κακό που έβοσκε μέσα μας». <br /> <br />Και μ' οδήγησε μπρος σ' ένα ψηλό βωμό, κι ολόκληρο το πλήθος ακλουθουσε. <br /> <br />Και μου 'δειξε πάνου στο βωμό μια επιγραφή, σκαλισμένη, που έγραφε: <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">«Ει δε ο οφθαλμός σου ο δεξιός σκανδαλίζει σε, έξελε αυτόν και βάλε απο σου·</span> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">συμφέρει γαρ σοι ίνα απόληση εν των μελών σου, και μη όλον το σώμα σου βληθή εις γέεναν'</span> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">και ει η δεξιά σου χειρ σκανδαλίζει σε, έκκοψον αυτήν και βάλε από σου· </span> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">συμφέρει γαρ σοι ίνα απόληση εν των μελών σου και μη όλον το σώμα σου βληθή εις γέεναν». </span> <br /> <br />Τότε μπήκα στο νόημα. <br />Και στρεφόμενος στα πλήθη φώναξα: <br />«Δεν υπάρχει ούτε ένας, (άντρας η γυναίκα, ανάμεσό σας: που να έχει δυο μάτια η δυο χέρια;» <br /> <br />Και μου απάντησαν, λέγοντας: <br />«Όχι, ούτε ένας. Δεν υπάρχει Ούτε ένας, εχτός από τα παιδιά - τα πολύ μικρά ακόμα για να μπορούν να διαβάσουν τη Γραφή και να καταλάβουν τις εντολές της». <br /> <br />Και μόλις βγήκαμε από το ναό, εγκατάλειψα αμέσως τη Βλογημένη Πολιτεία' <br />γιατί δεν ήμουν πολύ μικρός, και γιατί μπορούσα τη Γραφή να διαβάσω.<div><a href="http://www.sync.gr/claim/WHCWprnmsSTz" rel="sync"></a></div><div><a href="http://www.sync.gr/claim/jQuwGwPVaHfJ" rel="sync"></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6863297870339709193?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-9150817059179955832011-02-15T03:23:00.000-08:002011-02-15T03:24:40.420-08:00Κάποτε, που έθαβα νεκρό, κάποιον εαυτό μου, πάλι·<br />κοντά μου ο νεκροθάφτης ήρθε να μου πει:<br />«Στ' αλήθεια απ' 'ολους που, να θάψουνε, η μοίρα εδώ έχει βγάλει,<br />μόνο για σένα αγάπη να 'χω νιώθω μες στα στήθια».<br /><br />Και του 'πα εγώ:<br />«Τα λόγια σου, για με, χαρά μεγάλη, όμως<br />το ν' αγαπάς εμέ τι σ' εχει κάνει τάχα;» «Γιατί», ειπ' εκείνος,<br />«κλαίοντας φτάνουν­- κλαίοντας φεύγουν οι αλλοι.<br />Ενώ γελώντας - κι ερχεσαι και φεύγεις - συ μονάχα».<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-915081705917995583?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-716952828951443682011-02-12T12:55:00.000-08:002011-02-12T13:24:00.493-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6QQYtMFr2lo/TVb6ZYxaEdI/AAAAAAAAObI/rOSTGFefwmA/s1600/gibran%2Bpainting.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6QQYtMFr2lo/TVb6ZYxaEdI/AAAAAAAAObI/rOSTGFefwmA/s400/gibran%2Bpainting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572916902970921426" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Τρία μυρμήγκια συναπαντήθηκαν πάνω στη μύτη κάποιου που ήταν ξαπλωμένος και κοιμότανε στον ήλιο.<br />Κι αφού αλληλοχαιρετίστηκαν, καθένα σύμφωνα με τα έθιμα της φυλης του, στάθηκαν να κουβεντιάσουν.<br />Το πρώτο μυρμήγκι είπε:<br />«Αυτοί οι λόφοι κι οι πεδιάδες είναι οι πιο γυμνόκαρπες απ' όσες έχω δει ποτές μου.<br />'Έψαχνα ολημερίς για ένα - οποιοδήποτε - σποράκι και δε βρήκα τίποτα».<br /><br />Κι είπε το δεύτερο μυρμήγκι:<br />«Κι εγώ τα ίδια, τίποτα δε βρήκα, κι έφαγα κάθε γωνιά και ξέφωτο.<br />Αυτή 'ναι θαρρώ, κείνη που λένε οι συμπατριώτες μου: μαλακή και κινούμενη γη που σε δαύτη τίποτα δεν ξεφυτρώνει».<br /><br />Τότε, το τρίτο μυρμήγκι, σήκωσε το κεφάλι του κι είπε:<br />«Φίλοι μου, στεκόμαστε αυτή τη στιγμή πάνω στη μύτη του Υπερμύρμηγκα,<br />του πανίσχυρου κι άπειρου Μυρμηγκιού, που τό στόμα του είναι τόσο μεγάλο που εμείς να μην<br />μπορούμε να το δούμε, που η σκιά του ειναι τόση - σ' απεραντοσύνη -<br />που να μην μπορουμε να τη σχεδιαγραφήσουμε,<br />που η φωνή του είναι τόσο βροντερή που να μην μπορούμε να την ακούσουμε· κι είναι αυτός ο πανταχού παρόντας».<br /><br />'Όταν το τρίτο μυρμήγκι μίλησε έτσι, τ' άλλα μυρμήγκια αλληλοκοιτάχτηκαν και γέλασαν.<br /><br />Και την ίδια εκείνη στιγμή ο άνθρωπος κουνήθηκε στον ύπνο του, σήκωσε το χέρι του κι έξυσε τη μύτη του, και τα τρία μυρμήγκια γίνηκαν λιώμα.<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-71695282895144368?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-53176995229817705962010-12-01T01:30:00.000-08:002010-12-01T01:37:25.704-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYW41VMNbI/AAAAAAAAM-w/iRBGkvFhwlA/s1600/A4834.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 383px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYW41VMNbI/AAAAAAAAM-w/iRBGkvFhwlA/s400/A4834.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545645156797789618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Στον κήπο του πατέρα μου βρίσκονται δυό κλουβιά.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">της έρημος του Νινεβάχ, κλει το ένα, ένα λιοντάρι</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">που, σκλάβοι του πατέρα μου, τ' αμπάρωσαν βαριά.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> στ' άλλο: στρουθί που ξέχασε του τραγουδιου τη χάρη.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Και κάθε μέρα - την αυγή - του λιονταριού, από πέρα</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">λέει το σπουργίτι: « Αιχμάλωτε μoυ αδελφέ, καλή σου μέρα».</span><br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5317699522981770596?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-79991539952121474122010-12-01T01:24:00.000-08:002010-12-01T01:25:56.917-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYUe0XQJ7I/AAAAAAAAM-o/R1eH1WKTAWI/s1600/menstruation.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYUe0XQJ7I/AAAAAAAAM-o/R1eH1WKTAWI/s400/menstruation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545642510838146994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Στα μαρμαρένια, του Ναού, σκαλιά· χτες είχα δει,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">στο χώρο ανάμεσο δυο αντρών, γυναίκα καθισμένη.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Με την πλευρά της όψης της - τη μια - πολύ χλωμή</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">και την πλευρά της όψης της - την άλλη - ξαναμμένη.</span><br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-7999153995212147412?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-71403951577798029632010-12-01T01:00:00.000-08:002010-12-01T01:20:08.369-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYSrJGWMGI/AAAAAAAAM-g/IcpKuQXGDjo/s1600/rodi.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 272px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYSrJGWMGI/AAAAAAAAM-g/IcpKuQXGDjo/s400/rodi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545640523539558498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Κάποτε, όταν ζούσα στην καρδιά μιας ροδιάς,<br />άκουσα ένα σπόρο της να λέει:<br />«Κάποια μέρα θα γίνω δέντρο, κι ο αγέρας θα τραγουδάει ανάμεσα στα κλώνια μου.<br />Ο ήλιος θα χορεύει πάνω στα φύλλα μου και θα 'μαι δυνατό δέντρο κι όμορφο,<br />στις εποχές όλες μέσα».<br /><br />Ύστερα μίλησε ένας άλλος σπόρος κι είπε:<br />«'Όταν ήμουν νιός σαν κι εσένα, είχα ,κι εγώ τέτοιες απόψεις,<br />μα τώρα που μπορώ να μετρώ και να ζυγίζω τα πράγματα,<br />βλέπω ότι οι ελπίδες μου τρέφονταν του κάκου».<br /><br />Κι ένας τρίτος σπόρος, μίλησε κι αυτός:<br />«Δε βλέπω τίποτα που να προμαντεύει, για εμάς, ένα τόσο μεγαλειώδες μέλλον».<br /><br />Κι ένας τέταρτος είπε:<br />«Όμως τι φενάκη θα 'ταν η ζωή μας, χωρίς προοπτικές μεγαλοσύνης».<br /><br />Ειπ' ένας πέμπτος:<br />«Γιατί να διαφωνούμε για το τι θα γίνουμε, αφού το τι είμαστε δε γροικάμε, καν».<br /><br />Μα ένας έκτος απάντησε:<br />«Έκείνο που είμαστε, αυτό θα εξακολουθήσουμε να είμαστε».<br /><br />Κι ένας έβδομος: «'Έχω τόσο ξεκάθαρη ιδέα για το καθετί πως θα γίνει' μα και να μην μπορώ να τη ντύσω με λέξεις!»<br /><br />Κι απέ: ένας όγδοος μίλησε - κι ένατος και δέκατος - και σειρά από άλους, και δεν μπορούσα να βγάνω άκρη πια, από τις φωνές τους.<br /><br />Κι έτσι, την ίδια εκείνη μέρα, μετακόμισα στην καρδιά μιας κυδωνιάς,<br />εκεί που οι σπόροι είναι λιγοστοί και δε μιλανε σχεδόν καθόλου.<br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-7140395157779802963?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-88508102183745984572010-12-01T00:43:00.000-08:002010-12-01T00:58:12.685-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYNqe_cpdI/AAAAAAAAM-Y/OeY_ljL_slM/s1600/prev_cassatt2109.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYNqe_cpdI/AAAAAAAAM-Y/OeY_ljL_slM/s400/prev_cassatt2109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545635014678193618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Τρεις μέρες, αφού 'χα γεννηθεί, κι όπως ήμουν ξαπλωμένος στη μεταξόστρωτη κούνια μου, θωρώντας με κατάπληχτη δυσαρέσκεια τα του καινούργιου κόσμου,<br />τριγυρνά μου,<br />η μητέρα μου μίλησε στην παραμάνα, λέγοντας:<br />«πως τα πάιει το παιδί μου;»<br /><br />Κι η παραμάνα απάντησε:<br />«Καλά τα πάει, κυρία, το τάισα τρεις φορές·<br />και δεν έχω ξαναδει ποτέ άλλο μωρό τόσο μικρό νά'ναι και τόσο χαρωπό».<br /><br />Κι εγώ εξοργίστηκα και φώναξα:<br />«Δεν ειν' αλήθεια, μητέρα·<br />το κρεβάτι μου ειναι σκληρό, και το γάλα του θηλασμού πικρόγευστο στο στόμα μου.<br />Η μυρουδιά του στήθους μου πνίγει τα ρουθούνια,<br />κι είμαι τρισδυστυχισμένο».<br /><br />Μα η μητέρα μου δεν κατάλαβε, ούτε κι η παραμάνα·<br />γιατί γλώσσα μου ήταν η γλώσσα κείνου του κόσμου απ' όπου 'χα έρθει.<br /><br />Και στις, είκοσι και μιά, μέρες της ζωής μου, που βαφτιζόμουνα - ο παπάς είπε στη μητέρα<br />μου:<br />«Πρέπει στ' αλήθεια να είσαστε ευτυχισμένη,<br />κυρία, που ο γιός σας γεννήθηκε χριστιανός».<br /><br />Κι εγώ ξαφνιάστηκα - κι είπα στον παπά:<br />«Τότε η μάνα σου, στους ουρανούς, πρέπει να 'ναι δυστυχισμένη<br />που εσύ δε γεννήθηκες χριστιανός».<br /><br />Μα κι ο παπάς, τα ίδια: δεν κατάλαβε τη γλώσσα μου.<br /><br />Και μετά από εφτά φεγγάρια, ένας μάντης με κοίταξε μια μέρα κι είπε στη μητέρα μου:<br />«Ο γιός σου θα γίνει πολιτικός και μέγας αρχηγέτης».<br /><br />Κι εγώ έσκουξα:<br />«Αυτή 'ναι ψευτοπροφητεία·<br />γιατί εγώ, μουσικός θα γίνω και τίποτα απ' όσα λέει».<br /><br />Μα ακόμα κι αυτό τον καιρό ήταν η γλώσσα μου ακατάληπτη<br />- κι ήταν μεγάλη η κατάπληξή μου.<br /><br />Κι ύστερα από τριάντα και τρία χρόνια, που<br />στο μεταξύ η μητέρα μου, κι η παραμάνα μου, κι ο παπάς, είχαν όλοι τους πεθάνει<br />(η σκιά του Θεού ας βρίσκεται πάνου από τα πνεύματά τους)<br />ο μάντης ζούσε ακόμα.<br /><br />Και χτες τον συναπάντησα κοντά στην πύλη του ναου·<br />κι όπως μιλούσαμε μου είπε:<br />«Πάντα μου το 'ξερα πως θα γινόσουν μεγάλος μουσικός.<br />Ακόμα κι από τα γεννοφάσκια σου προφήτεψα και προείπα το μέλλον σου».<br /><br />Κι εγώ τον πίστεψα<br />- γιατί τώρα πια έχω κι εγώ λησμoνημένη τη γλώσσα εκείνου,<br />τ' αλλουνού κόσμου.<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-8850810218374598457?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-35657007048116299512010-12-01T00:39:00.000-08:002010-12-01T00:43:10.573-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYKJi3rf_I/AAAAAAAAM-Q/NoO6JagRP3I/s1600/Angel-and-Devil-59900.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYKJi3rf_I/AAAAAAAAM-Q/NoO6JagRP3I/s400/Angel-and-Devil-59900.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545631150248787954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Χτές, τη νυχτιά, ανακάλυψα μια νέα για με ηδονή,<br />και καθώς τη δοκίμαζα - στη δοκιμή την πρώτη -<br />ορμήσανε στο σπίτι μου, και ποιός πρώτος θα μπει,<br />άγγελος απ' την αστροχώρα, διάολος απ' τα σκότη.<br /><br />Και, για την καινουργιοφτιαγμένη μου ηδονή,<br />στα χέρια πιαστήκανε (τρικούβερτος καυγάς, μεγάλος σάλος).<br />«Είναι αμαρτία!» φώναζε γοερά ο από τ' αστέρια...<br />«Είναι αρετή», του αντίσκοβε το «βήχα» αμέσως ο άλλος.<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3565700704811629951?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-34096777803822131902010-12-01T00:29:00.000-08:002010-12-01T00:30:51.390-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYHmOohT5I/AAAAAAAAM-I/9MC5EKj7l5Y/s1600/old-tavern.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 202px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYHmOohT5I/AAAAAAAAM-I/9MC5EKj7l5Y/s400/old-tavern.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545628344497819538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Τρεις άνθρωποι συναντήθηκαν στο τραπέζι καπηλειού.Ένας υφαντής, ένας ξυλουργός, κι ο τρίτος σκαφτιάς.<br /><br />Είπε ο υφαντής: «Πούλησα σήμερα ένα λεπτουφασμένο λινό για σάβανο, δυο φλουριά χρυσά.<br />Ας πιούμε κρασί όσο μας κάνει κέφι».<br />«Κι εγώ», ειπ' ο ξυλουργός, «πούλησα την καλύτερή μου κάσα. Ας φάμε κι ένα μεγαλόπρεπο ψητό, πίνοντας το κρασί μας».<br /><br />«Εγώ έσκαψα ένα τάφο, μόνο», είπε ο σκαφτιάς,<br />«μα τ' αφεντικό μου με διπλοπλέρωσε. Ας πάρουμε και γλυκά μελωμένα».<br /><br />Κι ολοβραδίς το καπηλειό δούλευε μια χαρά γιατί συχνοπαράγγελναν, πότε κρασί, πότε κρέας, πότε γλυκά. Κι ήταν γεμάτοι κέφι.<br /><br />Κι ο κάπελας, τρίβοντας τα χέρια του, ήταν όλο χαμόγελα με τη γυναίκα του· μιας κι η πελατεία ξόδευε αλογάριαστα.<br /><br />'Όταν έφυγαν, το φεγγάρι βρίσκονταν ψηλά κι εκείνοι ροβόλησαν, με τραγούδια και φωνές, αντάμα.<br /><br />'Ο κάπελας κι η γυναίκα του στάθηκαν στην ξώπορτα της ταβέρνας και τους κοίταζαν, όπως μάκραιναν.<br /><br />«'Ά! », έκανε η γυναίκα, «τι κύριοι! > Ανοιχτοχέρηδες κι ανοιχτόκαρδοι!<br />Να 'ταν να μας έφερναν, καθημερνά, τέτοια καλοτυχιά!<br />Τότες ο γιός μας δε θα 'χε ανάγκη να γένει ταβερνιάρης και να σκληροδουλεύει.<br />Θα μπορούσαμε να τον μορφώσουμε,<br />και θα μπόραγε παπάς, να γίνει».<br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3409677780382213190?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-41377475749028396792010-12-01T00:16:00.000-08:002010-12-01T00:20:13.320-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYFFhFd5_I/AAAAAAAAM-A/iIWzdC39NDc/s1600/images1.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 193px; height: 261px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYFFhFd5_I/AAAAAAAAM-A/iIWzdC39NDc/s400/images1.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545625583492130802" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Κάποτε βασίλευε, στη μακρινή πόλη του Βίρανι, ένας βασιλιάς που ήταν σοφός και δυνατός συνάμα.<br />Και, για τη δύναμή του τον σκιάζονταν, μα για τη σοφία του τον αγαπούσαν.<br /><br />Λοιπόν, στην καρδιά της πόλης υπήρχε ένα πηγάδι, που το νερό του ήταν δροσερό και κρουσταλλένιο, κι από αυτό έπιναν όλοι οι κάτοικοι, ακόμα κι ο ρήγας κι οι αυλικοί του' γιατί άλλο από αυτό δεν υπήρχε.<br /><br />Μια νύχτα που κοιμόνταν ολάκαιρη η πόλη, μια μάγισσα τρύπωσε μέσα κι έχυσε εφτά σταγόνες, από παράξενο υγρό, στο πηγάδι και είπε:<br />«Από αυτή την ώρα όποιος από το νερό τούτο πίνει: τρελός θα γίνεται».<br /><br />Τ' άλλο πρωινό όλοι οι κάτοικοι, μ' εξαίρεση το ρήγα και τον αυλάρχη του, ήπιαν από το πηγάδι και γίνηκαν τρελοί, ακριβώς σαν που 'χε προλαλήσει η μάγισσα.<br /><br />Κι όλη τη μέρα εκείνη ο λαός, στα στενορύμια και στις πλατιές αγορές, δεν έκανε κι άλλο<br />πράμα παρά να σιγοψιθυρίζει - ένας στον άλλο - :<br />"Ο ρήγας είναι τρελός. Ο ρήγας μας κι ο αυλάρχης του χάσαν τα λογικά τους.<br />Σίγουρα δεν μπορούμε να κυβερνιόμαστε από τρελό βασιλιά.<br />Πρέπει να τον ξεθρονίσουμε».<br /><br />Το ίδιο απόγεμα ο ρήγας διέταξε να γεμίσουν ένα χρυσό κύπελο από το πηγάδι.<br />Κι όταν έφεραν σ' αυτόν το νερό, ήπιε χορταστικά και το έδωσε και στον αυλάρχη του,<br />να πιει κι εκείνος.<br /><br />Τότε στην πόλη εκείνη του Βιράνι εγίνηκε χαρά πολύ μεγάλη,<br /><br />Γιατί: ρήγας κι αυλάρχης μάνι μάνι τα λογικά τους βρήκανε και πάλι ...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">....</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-4137747574902839679?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-26301395287936748632010-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:002010-12-01T00:08:07.161-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYCSPTM-dI/AAAAAAAAM94/7vw3sX468Us/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 264px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPYCSPTM-dI/AAAAAAAAM94/7vw3sX468Us/s400/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545622503521319378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Κάποια αλεπού:"Θα φάμε μια καμήλα",<br />θωρώντας πρωί τη σκιά της, της εμίλα.<br />όμως του κάκου κύλησε το πρωί<br />χωρίς καμήλες -που έψαχνε- να βρει.<br /><br />Το μεσημέρι πια σαν είδε πάλι<br />τη σκιά της , δεν την ηύρε...έτσι μεγάλη<br />και ..."βάζοντας τη μάχαιρα στη θήκη"...<br />"Για γεύμα μου", είπε, "αρκεί κι ένα ποντίκι".<br /><br />....<br />O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του<br />Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2630139528793674863?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-68664535421007059922010-11-30T23:56:00.001-08:002010-12-01T00:00:09.139-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPX_zIx52wI/AAAAAAAAM9o/COHek1yfK00/s1600/Eyes_Wide_Open_1280x800.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TPX_zIx52wI/AAAAAAAAM9o/COHek1yfK00/s400/Eyes_Wide_Open_1280x800.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545619770171841282" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Μια νυχτιά γινόταν συμπόσιο στο παλάτι κι ήρθε κάποιος<br />και ρίχτηκε γονατιστός μπρος στα πόδια του πρίγκηπα,<br />κι όλοι οι συμποσιαστές τον κοίταζαν' κι είδαν βγαλμένο το ένα του μάτι<br />κι από την άδεια κόγχη του έτρεχε αίμα.<br /><br />Κι ο πρίγκηπας τον ρώτησε:<br />«Τι σου συνέβη;».<br /><br />Κι αποκρίθηκε ο ανθρωπος:<br />«"Αχ, πρίγκηπά μου, είμαι κλέφτης - επαγγελματίας - κι απόψε τη νύχτα,<br />επειδή δεν είχε φεγγαρόφωτο, καθώς πήγα να κλέψω το μαγαζί του σαράφη<br />κι οπως πήδηξα ένα παράθυρο, από λάθος μου, έπεσα στο μαγαζί του υφαντή,<br />και μέσα στο σκοτάδι χτυπώντας πάνω στον αργαλειό του: έβγαλα το μάτι μου.<br />Καi τώρα,πρίγκηπά μου, ζητώ δικαιοσύνη για το κακό που ο υφαντής έκανε σε<br />μένα».<br /><br />Τότε ο πρίγκηπας έστειλε και φέραν τον υφαντή<br />και διέταξε να του βγάλουν το ένα του μάτι.<br /><br />«"Ω, πρίγκηπά μου», είπε ο υφαντής,<br />« δίκαιη η προσταγή σου. Σωστό να μου βγάλουν το ένα μου μάτι.<br />'Όμως, αλίμονο, μου είναι απαραίτητα και τα δυό μάτια για να μπορώ να βλέπω και τις δυό όψεις του πανιού που υφαίνω.<br />Μα έχω ένα γείτονα, μπαλωματή, που έχει κι αυτός δυο μάτια, και που - δυο - δεν είναι απαραίτητα στο επάγγελμά του».<br /><br />Τότε ο πρίγκηπας έστειλε, για τον μπαλωματή.<br /><br />Κι αυτός ήρθε. Και βγάλαν το ένα από του μπαλωματη τα μάτια.<br /><br />Κι η δικαιοσύνη αποδόθηκε.<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6866453542100705992?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-56346392485831501272010-11-25T00:46:00.000-08:002010-11-25T00:54:01.055-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4jYgSPdgI/AAAAAAAAM6g/qduENsWkzow/s1600/gibr11.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4jYgSPdgI/AAAAAAAAM6g/qduENsWkzow/s400/gibr11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543407095229937154" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Στη σιωπηλότερη ώρα της νύχτας, καθώς έγερνα μισοκοιμάμενος,<br />οι εφτά εαυτοί μου κάθησαν αντάμα και, ψιθυρίζοντας, έτσι κουβέντιαζαν:<br /><br />Πρώτος Εαυτός:<br />Εδώ, σ' αυτό τον τρελό μέσα, κατοίκησα όλα μου ετούτα τα χρόνια, χωρίς άλλο να κάνω παρά ν' ανανεώνω τον πόνο του, τη μέρα, και να ξαναπλάθω τη θλίψη του, τη νύχτα.<br />Δεν αντέχω πια τη μοίρα μου κι επαναστατώ, από 'δω και πέρα.<br /><br />Δεύτερος Εαυτός:<br />Η δική σου μοίρα είναι καλύτερη από τη δική μου, αδερφέ, γιατί δικό μου γραφτό: να 'μαι ο χαρωπός εαυτός του τρελού τούτου.<br />Γελω με το γέλιο του και τραγουδω, τις ώρες της χαράς του και με τρισφτερωμένα πόδια χορεύω τις λαμπερόσπιθες σκέψεις του.<br />Εγώ θα 'πρεπε να επαναστατήσω ενάντια στην υποσταμένη μου ύπαρξη.<br /><br />Τρίτος Εαυτός:<br />Και τι ν' ακούσετε από μένα, τον ερωτοκένταυρο εαυτό του, το πυραχτώδικο<br />έμβλημα των άγριων παθών και τον φανταστικών επιθυμιών;<br />Εγώ είμαι: ο ερωτοπλάνταχτος εαυτός του - που θα 'πρεπε να σηκώσω παντιέρα ενάντια στον τρελόν ετούτο.<br /><br />Τέταρτος Εαυτός:<br />Εγώ, ανάμεσα σε όλους εσάς, είμαι ο πιο δυστυχισμένος, γιατί δε μου έλαχε παρά το απεχθές μίσος κι η ξεθεμελιώστρα αποστροφή.<br />Εγώ θα 'πρεπε, ο όμοιος με καταιγίδα εαυτός - ο γεννημένος στις μαυροσπηλιές της Κόλασης,<br />να 'μαι ο πρώτος διαμαρτυρόμενος, για να υπηρετήσει τον τρελόν ετούτο.<br /><br />Πέμπτος Εαυτός:<br />Όχι, εγώ θα 'πρεπε, ο διανοούμενος εαυτός, ο εαυτός της κάθε φαντασίωσης, ο εαυτός της κάθε πείνας και δίψας, ο καταδικασμένος στην, χωρίς αναπαμό, περιπλάνηση, στο κυνηγητό άγνωρων πραγμάτων - κι αδημιούργητων πραγμάτων ακόμα' εγώ θά 'πρεπε κι όχι εσεις, να επαναστατήσω.<br /><br />Έκτος Εαυτός:<br />Κι εγώ, ο δουλευτάρης εαυτός, ο αξιοδάκρυτος εαυτός του μόχθου που, με υπομονής χέρια και πολύπαθα μάτια, πλάθω τις μέρες σε εικόνες και δίνω στα ασχηματοποίητα στοιχεία καινούργιες κι αιώνιες μορφές - εγώ θα 'πρεπε, ο απομοναχιασμένος, να 'μαι ο επαναστάτης ενάντια στον πολυπράγμονα τρελόν ετούτο.<br /><br />Έβδομος Εαυτός: Πόσο παράξενο, να θέτε εσείς όλοι να επαναστατήσετε ενάντια στον άνθρωπο αυτόν, γιατί καθένας σας κι όλοι έχετε να εκπληρώσετε προδιαγραμμένο ρόλο.<br />Αχ! και να μπορούσα να 'μουν ένας σαν εσάς, ένας εαυτός με προκαθορισμένη κλήρα!<br /><br />Μα εγώ δεν έχω καμιά.<br />Είμαι ο εαυτός που τίποτα δεν κάνει, κείνος που κάθεται στο αλάλητο, στο πουθενά και στο ουδέποτε, ενόσω εσείς είσαστε απασχολημένοι με την αναδημιουργία της ζωής.<br /><br />Εσείς είσαστε ή εγώ, γείτονες, που θα 'πρεπε να επαναστατήσω;<br /><br />Όταν ο έβδομος εαυτός μίλησε έτσι, οι άλλοι έξη εαυτοί τον κοίταξαν με οίκτο μα, χωρίς να πουν τίποτα πια - και καθώς η νύχτα πύκνωνε - ο ένας μετά τον άλλο τράβηξαν για ύπνο τυλιγμένοι μέσα σε μια χαρούμενη εγκαρτέρηση.<br /><br />Μα ο έβδομος εαυτός απόμεινε γρηγορώντας' σ' ενατενισμό του τίποτα που βρίσκεται πίσω από τα πράγματα, Ολα.<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5634639248583150127?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-5203623849833811692010-11-25T00:20:00.000-08:002010-11-25T00:23:34.193-08:00Ζούσε κάποιος - πριν αιωνες<br />Που'χε κοιλάδα με βελόνες.<br />Και τότε - στα παλιά - μια μέρα<br />πάει και του λέει του Ιησού η Μητέρα:<br /><br />Φίλε μου, ο γιός μου στην ερμιά<br />σκισμένα ρούχα πιά φοράει.<br />Δωσ' μου βελόνα, αν θέλεις,μια<br />'τι πρέπει στο ναό να πάει.<br /><br />Μα εκειός βελόνα που! Με λόγια<br />της χτίζει «ανώγεια καί κατώγεια» ...<br />Λόγια! τις τρύπες να κεντήσει<br />το γιό στο ναό πριν προβοδήσει.<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-520362384983381169?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-66252638554901326822010-11-25T00:04:00.000-08:002010-11-25T00:16:29.047-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4bRtz5jOI/AAAAAAAAM6I/0Pv1cz4X_dU/s1600/cup.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 330px; height: 317px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4bRtz5jOI/AAAAAAAAM6I/0Pv1cz4X_dU/s400/cup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543398182508661986" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Πάνω σε μοναχικό βουνό ζούσαν δυό ερημίτες,<br />που λάτρευαν το Θεό, τρέφοντας αγάπη συνάμα κι ο ένας στον αλλο.<br /><br />Λοιπόν, αυτοί οι δυό ερημίτες είχαν μια πηλένια κούπα' μοναδική τους περιουσία.<br /><br />Κάποια μέρα, πονηρό πνεύμα τρύπωσε στα, φυλλοκάρδια του πιο γέρου ερημίτη κι εκείνος πηγαίνοντας στο νεότερο του είπε:<br />«Πολύ καιρό τώρα ζήσαμε μαζί.<br />'Ηρθε η στιγμή να χωριστούμε. Ας μοιραστούμε τα υπάρχοντά μας».<br /><br />Τότε ο νεότερος ερημίτης λυπήθηκε, ωστόσο εΙπε:<br />«Θλίβομαι, αδελφέ, που θα μ' εγκατααλείψεις.<br />Μα αν πρέπει να φύγεις, κι αυτό ας γίνει»,<br />και φέρνοντας την πηλένια κούπα του την έδωσε λέγοντας:<br />«Μιας και δε γίνεται να τη μοιράσουμε, αδελφέ μου, ας μείνει δική σου».<br /><br />Τότε ο γεροντότερος ερημίτης είπε:<br />«Έλεημοσύνη δε θα δεχτώ. Δε θα πάρω τίποτα που δε θα μου ανήκει.<br />Πρέπει να κοπεί στη μέση».<br /><br />Κι ο νεότερός του εΙπε:<br />«Αν η κούπα σπάσει, σε τι θα μπορούσε πια να χρησιμέψει, σ' οποιονδήποτε από τους δυό μας; Μα αν επιμένεις σ' αυτό, ας τη ρίξουμε στον κλήρο».<br /><br />Μα ο γεροντότερος ερημίτης είπε ξανά:<br />«Δέ ζητώ, παρά δικαιοσύνη και το μεράδι μου.<br />Και δε ριψοκινδυνεύω, τη δικαιοσύνη και το έχει μου, στο τυφλό ζάρι της τύχης.<br />Η κούπα πρέπει να κοπεί στα δύο».<br /><br />Τότε ο νεότερος ερημίτης, βλέποντας το μάταιο πια κάθε συζήτησης, εΙπε:<br />«Αν, στ' αλήθεια, αυτή 'ναι η θέλησή σου, κι αν έτσι το ζητάς να γίνει,<br />μπρός:να σπάσουμε την κούπα αμέσως».<br /><br />Μα το πρόσωπο του πιο γέρου ερημίτη σκοτείνιασε υπερβολικά, και ξεφώνησε:<br />« Ω , καταραμένε κιοτή, δε θ' ανοίξεις λοιπόν αμάχη!» ...<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6625263855490132682?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-52134378765713538932010-11-24T23:51:00.000-08:002010-11-24T23:53:26.219-08:00Σοφό σκυλί, από γατιών παρέα εμπρός, διαβαίνει<br /><br />κι εντυπωσιάστηκε, να δει που πρόσεχαν σε κάτι!<br /><br />Στέκει και βλέπει, οι γάτοι μας, ν' ακούν προσηλωμένοι μεγάλο κι επιβλητικό, στη μέση, χοντρογάτη ...<br /><br />Κι έλεγε:<br />«Προσευχή, αδελφοί, και πάλιν, κι επιπλέον,<br /><br />μηδόλως αμφιβάλλοντες ότι εν τη πάση λέξει, εκ πλήρους πίστεως ψυχής (δι' ευλαβών χειλέων):<br /><br />θέλει εισακούσει, ο ουρανός, και ποντικούς θά βρέξει».<br /><br />Όταν ο σκύλος τ' άκουσε, ξεράθηκε στα γέλια.<br />Μόνο, τους είπε φεύγοντας, για να 'χουν κάποια ωφέλεια:<br /><br />«Τυφλά κι ανόητα γατιά·<br />λες και δεν ειν' γραμμμένο,<br />λες και δεν το μαθαίνουμε - στη Βίβλο των προγόνων-<br />πως με ικεσίας προσευχές και πως με πίστης αίνο,<br />δε βρέχει ποντικούς ο θεός,<br />μα: κόκαλα, και μόνον».<br /><br />....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5213437876571353893?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-39806124772761202162010-11-24T23:17:00.001-08:002010-11-24T23:18:57.239-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4NnxqgUdI/AAAAAAAAM6A/Wy8YqK_wlC8/s1600/mother.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4NnxqgUdI/AAAAAAAAM6A/Wy8YqK_wlC8/s400/mother.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543383168337334738" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Στην πόλη που γεννήθηκα: μάνα και κόρη ζούσαν<br /><br />στον ύπνο τους που, πότε πότε, νυχτοπερπατούσαν.<br /><br />Μια νύχτα που ησυχία γλυκιά πλάνευε όλη την πλάση,<br />κόρη και μάνα, υπνοβατώντας,<br />ήρθαν κι οι δυο κάτου<br />και, στην ομίχλη που τον κήπο γύρω είχε σκεπάσει,<br />αντάμωσαν στον ύπνο, ως λεν' τ' αδέρφι του θανάτου.<br /><br />Μίλησ' η μάνα:<br />«Ώ! Πιό φριχτός εχθρός μου, στους ανθρώπους,<br />Έσύ 'σαι που κατάστρεψες τη θαλλερή μου νιότη.<br /><br />Τ' ανθί της ζωής σου λίπανες με τους δικούς μου κόπους.<br /><br />Αν ανθρωπο εγώ σκότωνα, εσύ θα 'σουν η πρώτη».<br /><br />Κι η κόρη:<br />«Ώ μισητή γυναίκα, γριά ξεκουτιασμένη,<br /> π' ο εγωισμός σου, εμπόδιό μου, για κάθ' ελευθερία!<br /><br />Που θέλεις τη ζωή μου ηχώ σου - ζωή, συ, μαραμένη.<br />Ας ήτανε να πέθαινες, να λήξει αυτή η ιστορία».<br /><br />Κείνη την ώρα ξύπνησαν' λάλησε το κοκόρι.<br />Κι η μάνα αγκάλιασε την κόρη και της λέει γλυκά:<br /> -Εσύ 'σαι, αγαπούλα μου;»<br />καί μ' όμοια γλύκα η κόρη: ..<br /> -Ναι, εγώ, χρυσή μανούλα μου»,<br />και πάνε αγκαλιαστά.<br /><br />................<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3980612477276120216?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-26140867600184879912010-11-24T22:58:00.000-08:002010-11-24T23:04:53.132-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4KgsRG7JI/AAAAAAAAM54/Kdm9fvLoySg/s1600/skiahtro.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO4KgsRG7JI/AAAAAAAAM54/Kdm9fvLoySg/s400/skiahtro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543379748094667922" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Κάποτε είπα σ' ένα σκιάχτρο που έδιωχνε πουλιά:<br />«Στο έρμο χωράφι, θα σε τρώει, κούραση και μαράζι».<br /><br />Και μου 'πε:<br />«Τρόμο να σκορπάς είναι η χαρά βαθιά που μοναξιά κι ορθοστασία ποτές δε με κουράζει» .<br /><br />Με λίγη σκέψη, ξαναλέω:<br />«Αλήθεια ειν' όλα αυτά·<br />τι έχω γνωρίσει τη χαράν αυτή, κάποτε, εντός μου ... »<br />«Ναι, μ' άχυρο όσοι γεμιστούν»,<br />το σκιάχτρο μου απαντά,<br />«μπορουν να πουν πως γνώρισαν τέτοιες χαρές του κόσμου».<br /><br />Τότε έφυγα χωρίς να ξέρω εγώ καλά καλά ,αν προσοολή μου ή επαινος<br />οι λόγοι 'ταν εκείνοι.<br />Και, χρόνος πέρασε, ένας, τότε με γοργά φτερά σα μου 'ρθαν νέα: φιλόσοφος, τό σκιάχτρο, ότ' είχε γίνει.<br />Κι έτυχε πάλι να περάσω εκεiθε, μια φορά,<br />κι ήταν το σκιάχτρο - π' άλλοτες έδιωχνε τα πουλάκια -μα το κεφάλι του είχε γίνει: φύλλα - και - φτερά,<br />και κάτω απ' το καπέλο του φωλιάζαν ΔΥΟ ΚΟΡΑΚΙΑ.<br />..........<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2614086760018487991?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-55970076066719058802010-11-24T22:00:00.000-08:002010-11-24T22:06:27.601-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO381pNzg9I/AAAAAAAAM5o/jYA2p_t_Q10/s1600/gib31.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO381pNzg9I/AAAAAAAAM5o/jYA2p_t_Q10/s400/gib31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543364714889970642" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Φίλε μου,<br />δεν ειμ' εκείνο που φαίνομαι.<br />Το θώρι μου δεν ειν' άλλο παρά το ντύμα που φοράω<br />- φροντισμένα υφασμένο ρούχο -<br />που με προστατεύει από τα ερωτήματά σου κι εσένα από την ολιγωρία μου.<br /><br />Το «Εγώ» σε μένα, φίλε μου, σπίτι του έχει το σπίτι της σιγής,<br />και μες σ' αυτό θ' απομείνει για πάντα, απαρατήρητο, απρόσιτο.<br /><br />Δε θέλω να σε κάνω να πιστέψεις τα όσα λέω κι ούτε να μπιστευτείς στα όσα κάνω<br />- γιατί τα λόγια μου δεν ειν' άλλο παρά οι δικές σου σκέψεις ηχοποιημένες κι οι πράξεις μου, οι δικές σου ελπίδες δραματοποιημένες.<br /><br />"Οταν εσύ λες: «Ο αγέρας πνέει ανατολικά»,<br />λέω κι εγώ:<br />«Ναι, ανατολικά πνέει»,<br />γιατί δε θέλω να σ' αφήσω να μάθεις πως ο νους μου δεν κατοικεί πάνω στον αγέρα,<br />μα πάνω στη θάλασσα.<br /><br />Δεν μπορείς να καταλάβεις τις ποντοπόρες σκέψεις μου,<br />κι ούτε θα σ' άφηνα να τις καταλάβεις..<br />Θέλω να 'μαι μοναχός μου με τη θάλασσα.<br /><br />Όταν είναι μέρα για σε, φίλε μου, είναι νύχτα για μένα· κι όμως<br />και τότε ακόμα μιλώ για μεσημέρια που χορεύουν πάνω στους λόφους και για πoρφυρές σκιές που κρυφογλιστρούν στις πεδιάδες, άκρη σ' άκρη·<br />γιατί εσύ δεν μπορεις ν' ακούσεις τα τραγούδια του σκοταδιού μου κι ούτε να δεις τα φτερά μου να φτεροκοπάνε προς τ' αστέρια - και, με χαρά μου,<br />δε θα σ' αφήσω να τα δεις ή να τ' ακούσεις.<br /><br />Θέλω να 'μαι μοναχός μου με τη νύχτα.<br /><br />Όταν εσύ ανεβαίνεις τα ουράνια σου, κατεβαίνω εγώ την Κόλασή μου -<br />όμως και τότε με καλεις ακόμα πάνου από το αγεφύρωτο βάραθρο:<br />«Σύντροφέ μου και συστρατιώτη μου»,<br />και σου αντιφωνάζω:<br />«Συστρατιώτη μου, σύντροφέ μου» -<br />γιατί δε θέλω εσύ να δεις την Κόλασή μου.<br />Η φλόγα θα 'καιγε την όρασή σου κι ο καπνός θα 'πνιγε τα ρουθούνια σου.<br />Κι αγαπω υπερβολικά την Κόλασή μου, που να μη θέλω και σένα επισκέπτη της.<br />Θέλω να 'μαι μοναχός μου με την Κόλαση.<br /><br />Αγαπας την Αλήθεια, την Ομορφιά, τη Δικιοσύνη·<br />κι εγώ, για λογαριασμό σου παραδέχομαι,<br />λέω πως είναι καλό και πρέπον ν' αγαπά κανείς τέτοια πράγματα.<br />Μα μέσα στήν καρδιά μου γελώ γι' αυτές τις αγάπες σου.<br />Κι όμως, να δεις δε θα σ' αφήσω, το γέλιο μου.<br />Θέλω να γελώ μοναχός μου.<br /><br />Φίλε μου, είσαι καλός, προφυλακτικός και σοφός· μάλιστα:<br />είσαι τέλειος - κι εγώ, λοιπόν, σοφά μιλώ μαζί σου, προσοχή γεμάτος.<br />Κι όμως, είμαι τρελός.<br />Μα φοράω στην τρέλα μου μια μάσκα.<br />Θέλω να 'μαι τρελός μοναχός μου.<br /><br />Φίλε μου,<br />δεν είσαι φίλος μου, αλλά πως να σε κάνω να το νιώσεις;<br />Τό μονοπάτι μου δεν είναι το μονοπάτι σου,<br />κι όμως περπατάμε αντάμα, χέρι χέρι.<br /><br />........<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5597007606671905880?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-61627971121806919072010-11-24T21:36:00.000-08:002010-11-24T21:42:21.604-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO32PoyU2II/AAAAAAAAM5g/cYKfQ6M1dpQ/s1600/gib16.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO32PoyU2II/AAAAAAAAM5g/cYKfQ6M1dpQ/s400/gib16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543357464869918850" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Τα παλιά χρόνια, όταν το πρώτο ψέλλισμα του λόγου ανάδεψε τα χείλια μου, ανέβηκα το άγιο βουνό και μίλησα προς το Θεό, λέγοντας:<br />«Κύριε, σκλάβος σου είμαι. Η απόκρυφή σου θέληση, νόμος μου και θα σε υπακούω εγώ στο έξης για πάντα».<br /><br />Μα ο Θεός δεν έδωσε απάντηση' σα δυνατή θύελλα διάβηκε πέρα.<br /><br />Και μετά χίλια χρόνια ανέβηκα τ' άγιο βουνό και ξαναμίλησα προς το Θεό, λέγοντας:<br />«Δημιουργέ, είμαι το δημιούργημά σου. Με μορφοποίησες, από πηλό, και σ' εσένα τα οφείλω όλα μου».<br /><br />Κι ο Θεός δεν έδωσε απάντηση, μα σα χιλιάδα γοργοφτέρουγα διάβηκε πέρα.<br /><br />Και μετά χίλια χρόνια σκαρφάλωσα στο άγιο βουνό και ξαναμίλησα προς το Θεό, λέγοντας: "Πατέρα, ο γιός σου είμαι.<br />Μ' έλεος κι αγάπη γέννησες εμένα, και μεσ' απ' αγάπη και λατρεία μου, για σένα, θα κληρονομήσω τη βασιλεία σου».<br /><br />Κι ο Θεός δεν έδωσε απάντηση, και σαν ομίχλη που πεπλοντύνει τ' απόμακρα βουνά, διάβηκε πέρα.<br /><br />Και μετά χίλια χρόνια σκαρφάλωσα τ' άγιο βουνό και ξαναμίλησα προς το Θεό, λέγοντας:<br />«Θεέ μου' ο σκοπός μου κι η ολοκλήρωσή μου:<br />είμαι το χτες σου κι είσαι το αυριό μου.<br />Είμαι η υπόγεια ρίζα σου κι είσαι το επουράνιό μου λουλούδι,<br />κι αντάμα αυξανόμαστε κατάντικρα στον ηλιο».<br /><br />Τότες ο Θεός έγειρε πάνω μου, και στ' αφτιά μου μουρμούρισε γλυκόλαλες λέξεις κι ακόμα,<br />σαν τη θάλασσα π' αγκαλιάζει ένα ρυάκι που χύνεται στους κόρφους της κατρακυλώντας, μ' αγκάλιασε.<br /><br />Κι όταν κατέβηκα στις κοιλάδες κι όταν κατέβηκα στις πεδιάδες, ήταν κι ο Θεός, επίσης, εκεί.<br />.......<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6162797112180691907?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-33988520942581907042010-11-24T11:09:00.000-08:002010-11-24T21:44:01.245-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-size:130%;">Πρόλογος</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO1k1YYsqNI/AAAAAAAAM5Y/tFddjMYC15s/s1600/gib29.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TO1k1YYsqNI/AAAAAAAAM5Y/tFddjMYC15s/s400/gib29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543197584604834002" border="0" /></a><br />Με ρωτάς πως γίνηκα τρελός.<br />Να το πως: Μιά μέρα, καιρό, καιρό πριν γεννηθούν πολλοί θεοί,<br />ξύπνησα από βαθύ έναν ύπνο κι ανακάλυψα πως όλες μου οι μάσκες είχαν κλεφτεί -<br />κι οι εφτά μάσκες που είχα φτιάξει και που είχα φθείρει μες σ' εφτά ζωές<br />- τότες έτρεξ' αμασκοφόρετος μεσ' από τους ανθρωπόβρυθους δρόμους κραυγάζοντας: «Κλέφτες, κλέφτες τρισκατάρατοι κλέφτες».<br /><br />Άντρες, γυναίκες, με περιγέλασαν και κάποιοι τρέξανε στα σπίτια τους, σκιαγμένοι από μένα.<br /><br />Κι όταν εφτασα στην αγορά, ένας νιός σκαρφαλωμένος σε μια στέγη φώναξε:<br />«Είναι τρελός».<br />Σήκωσα τα μάτια να τον αντικρίσω· ο ήλιος φίλησε το γυμνό μου πρόσωπο για πρώτη φορά.<br />Για πρώτη φορά ο ήλιος φίλησε το γυμνό μου πρόσωπο<br />κι η ψυχή μου φλογίστηκε από αγάπη για τον Ήλιο, και δεν ήθελα τις μάσκες μου πια τώρα.<br />Και σάμπως μέσα σ' έκσταση φώναξα: ..<br />"Ευλογημένοι , ευλογημένοι, οι κλέφτες που 'κλεψαv τις μάσκες μου».<br /><br />Έτσι γίνηκα τρελός.<br /><br />Καί βρήκα και τα δυό τους: λεφτεριά και σιγουριά, μέσα στην τρέλα μου'<br />τη λεφτεριά της μοναξιάς, τη σιγουριά της ακαταληψίας,<br />γιατί όποιοι μας καταλαβαίνουν σκλαβώνουν κάτι μέσα μας.<br /><br />Μα, ας μην είμαι και τόσο υπερφίαλος για τη σιγουριά μου.<br />Ακόμα κι ένας κλέφτης, φυλακωμένος, είναι ασφαλισμένος από έναν άλλο κλέφτη.<br />...........<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">O TΡΕΛΟΣ - Οι παραβολές και τα ποιήματά του</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Μετάφραση :Στάυρος Μελισσηνός</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3398852094258190704?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-3913370655448691962010-09-15T22:54:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.265-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TJGxWtrZ5BI/AAAAAAAALBc/GUqd5JKn0yM/s1600/gibran_art_g108.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 280px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517386022282454034" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TJGxWtrZ5BI/AAAAAAAALBc/GUqd5JKn0yM/s400/gibran_art_g108.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>ΚΑΙ τότε η Αλμήτρα μίλησε ξανά, και είπε, Και τώρα θα σε ρωτήσουμε για το Θάνατο.<br />Κι εκείνος είπε:<br />Θέλετε να μάθετε το μυστικό του θανάτου.<br />Αλλά πως θα το βρείτε αν δεν το γυρέψετε μέσα στην καρδιά της ζωής;<br />Η κουκουβάγια που τα νυχτόθωρα μάτια της είναι τυφλα στο φως της μέρας, δεν μπορεί ν' αποκαλύψει το μυστήριο του φωτός. ''Αν θέλετε πραγματικά ν' αντικρύσετε την ψυχή του θανάτου, ανοίξτε την καρδιά σας ολάκερη στο σώμα της ζωής.<br />Γιατι η ζωή κι ο θάνατος είναι ένα, καθώς ο ποταμός κι η θάλασσα είναι ένα.<br />Στο βάθος των ελπίδων και των πόθων σας υπάρχει η σιωπηλή σας γνώση για το υπερπέραν.<br />Και σαν τους σπόρους που ονειρεύονται κάτω από το χιόνι, η καρδιά σας ονειρεύεται την άνοιξη. Να εμπιστεύεστε τα όνειρα, γιατί σ' αυτά είναι κρυμμένη η πύλη προς την αιωνιότητα.<br />Ο φόβος σας για το θάνατο είναι σαν το τρεμούλιασμα του βοσκου όταν στέκεται μπροστά στο βασιλιά που το χέρι του θα τον ακουμπήσει για να τον τιμήσει.<br />Μήπως δε χαίρεται ό βοσκός κάτω από το τρεμούλιασμά του, που θα φορέσει το μετάλλιο του βασιλιά;<br />Κι ώστόσο, δεν είναι η ταραχή εκεινο που τον γνιάζει πιό πολύ;<br />Γιατί, τι αλλο είναι ο θάνατος εκτός από το να σταθείς γυμνός μέσα στον άνεμο και να λιώσεις μέσα στον ήλιο;<br />Και τι σημαίνει να πάψεις ν' αναπνέεις εκτός από το να ελευθερώσεις την ανάσα από τα ασταμάτητα κύματά της, για να μπορέσει να υψωθεί και ν' άπλωθει και να γυρέψει το Θεό ανάλαφρη κι ανεμπόδιστη;<br />Μονάχα όταν πιείτε από το ποτάμι της σιωπης, θα μπορέσετε πραγματικά να τραγουδήσετε.<br />Και μόνο όταν φτάσετε στη βουνοκορφή, θ' αρχίσετε να σκαρφαλώνετε.<br />Kαι όταν η γη γυρέψει τα μέλη σας, τότε μόνο θα χορέψετε πραγματικά. </div><div><em>Μετάφραση - Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-391337065544869196?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-4224697989637280722010-09-15T22:42:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.267-08:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TJGvOy_FNpI/AAAAAAAALBU/l6VxEIr_9hk/s1600/gib11.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 297px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517383687244953234" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TJGvOy_FNpI/AAAAAAAALBU/l6VxEIr_9hk/s400/gib11.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Kι ένας γέρος ιερέας είπε, Μίλησέ μας για τη Θρησκεια.<br />Κι εκείνος αποκρίθηκε:<br />Μήπως μίλησα για τίποτ' άλλο σήμερα εκτός άπό τη θρησκεία;<br />Δεν είναι ή θρησκεία όλες οι πράξεις και όλες οι σκέψεις, και αυτό που δεν είναι ούτε πράξη ούτε σκέψη, αλλα μια απορία και μια εκπληξη που αναβλύζει πάντοτε μέσα στην ψυχή, ακόμα κι όταν τα χέρια σμιλεύουν την πέτρα ή δουλεύουν στον αργαλειό;<br />Ποιός μπορεί να χωρίσει την πίστη του από τις πράξεις του, η τις πεποιθήσεις του από τις ασχολίες του;<br />Ποιός μπορεί ν' απλώσει τις ώρες του μπροστά του, και να πεί,<br />«Αυτό για τό Θεό κι αυτό για μένα ,αυτό για την ψυχή μου κι αυτό για το σωμα μου;» "Όλες οι ώρες σας είναι φτερα που φτερουγίζουν μέσα στο διάστημα και πετούν από εαυτό σε εαυτό.<br />Αυτός που φοράει την ηθικότητά του σαν το καλύτερο ρουχο του, θα ήταν καλύτερα να μείνει γυμνός.<br />0 άνεμος κι ο ήλιος δε θ' ανοίξουν τρύπες στο δέρμα του.<br />Και αυτός που κανονίζει τη συμπεριφοορά του με την ηθική, φυλακίζει τό αηδόνι της ψυχης του στο κλουβί.<br />Το πιό ελεύθερο τραγούδι δεν ερχεται μέσα από τις αμπάρες η τα σύρματα του κλουυβιου.<br />Και όποιος βλέπει τη λατρεία σαν ενα παράθυρο, που μπορεί ν' ανοίγει αλλα και να κλείνει, αυτός δεν εχει ακόμα επισκεφτεί το σπίτι της ψυχης του που τα παράθυρά του αρχίζουν την αυγη και τελειώνoυν στην αυγή.<br />Η καθημερινή σας ζωη είναι ο ναός σας και η θρησκεία σας.<br />'Όταν μπαίνετε σ' αυτήν, πάρετε μαζί σας όλο τον εαυτό σας.<br />Πάρετε τ' αλέτρι και τ' αμόνι, το σφυρι και το λαγουτο, τα πράγματα που φτιάξατε για τις αναγκες σας η για την ευχαρίστησή σας,<br />Γιατί, στις όνειροπολήσεις σας δεν μπορείτε ν' ανυψώθείτε πάνω από τα κατορθώματά σας, ούτε να πέσετε χαμηλότερα από τις αποοτυχίες σας.<br />Και πάρετε μαζί σας όλους τους ανθρώπους:<br />Γιατί, στη λατρεία σας δεν μπορειτε να πετάξετε ψηλότερα από τις ελπίδες τους, ούτε να ταπεινώσετε τον εαυτό σας χαμηλότεερα από την απελπισία τους.<br />Κι αν θέλετε να γνωρίσετε το Θεό, μην ενεργειτε σα να προσπαθειτε να λύσετε αινίγματα.<br />Καλύτερα να κοιτάξετε γύρω σας και θα δείτε το Θεο να παίζει με τα παιδιά σας.<br />Κοιτάξετε και στο διάστημα θα δειτε το Θεό να περπατάει μέσα στο σύννεφο, ν' άπλώνει τα χέρια του με την αστραπή και να κατεβαίνει με τη βροχή.<br />Θα τον δειτε να χαμογελάει μέσα από τα λουλούδια και μετα ν' ανεβαίνει και να κουνάει τα χέρια του με τα κλαδιά των δέντρων. </div><div><em>Μετάφραση - Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-422469798963728072?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-73886445648544405662010-09-12T23:39:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.269-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3JgdKmQlI/AAAAAAAAK-k/MOgDqf5OprA/s1600/gib16.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 284px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516286678020801106" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3JgdKmQlI/AAAAAAAAK-k/MOgDqf5OprA/s400/gib16.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>Κι ενας ποιητής είπε, </div><br /><div>Μίλησέ μας γιά την Ομορφιά.<br />Κι εκείνος αποκρίθηκε:<br />που θα ψάξετε για την ομορφιά, και πως θα τη βρείτε αν αυτη ή ίδια δεν είναι ό δρόμος σας και ο οδηγός σας;<br />Και πως θα μιλήσετε γι' αυτη αν αυτη δεν είναι η υφάντρα του λόγου σας;<br />Οι βασανισμένοι και οι χτυπημένοι λένε, «Η όμορφια είναι καλη κι ευγενική.<br />Σα μια νέα μητέρα, κάπως ντροπαλη για τη δόξα της, περπατεί ανάμεσά μας.»<br />Και οι ανθρωποι του πάθους λένε, «'Όχι, η όμορφια είναι ενα πράγμα γεμάτο δύναμη και τρόμο.<br />Σαν την καταιγίδα ταρακουνά τη γη κάτω από τα πόδια μας και τον ουρανό πάνω από τα κεφάλια μας.»<br />Οι κουρασμένοι και οι αδύναμοι λένε, «Η όμορφια είναι φτιαγμένη από απαλά ψιθυρίσματα. Μιλάει μέσα στο πνεύμα μας. H φωνή της υποχωρεί στη σιωπή μας σαν το αδύναμο φως που τρεμοπαίζει από το φόβο της σκιάς.»<br />Αλλα οι ανήσυχοι λένε, «Έμείς ακούσαμε την όμορφια να κραυγάζει ανάμεσα στα βουνά, Και μαζι με τις κραυγές της, ακούστηκε ο ήχος καλπασμών, χτύπημα φτερών και βρούχισμα λιονταριών.» •<br />Τη νύχτα οι φύλακες της πόλης λένε, "Η όμορφια θ' ανατείλει μαζι με την αυγη από την ανατολή.»<br />Και το μεσημέρι, οι εργάτες κι οι όδοιιπόροι λένε, «Έμεις είδαμε την όμορφια να γέρνει πάνω στη γη από τα παράθυρα της δύσης.»<br />Το χειμώνα, οι αποκλεισμένοι από τα χιόνια λένε, «Η ομορφιά θα ' ρθει με την άνοιξη τρέχοντας χαρούμενα πάνω στους λόφους.»<br />Και μέσα στη ζέστη του καλοκαιριου, οι θεριστες λένε, «Έμεις είδαμε την ομορφιά να χορεύει μαζι με τα φθινοπωρινα φύλλα και είχε μια τούφα χιόνι στα μαλλιά της.»<br />'Όλα αυτα τα πράγματα εχετε πει για την όμορφιά.<br />Άλλα στην πραγματικότητα δε μιλήσατε για την όμορφια αλλα για ανάγκες ανεκπλήρωτες,<br />Και η όμορφια δεν ειναι μια ανάγκη, αλλα μια έκσταση. "Η ομορφιά δεν είναι στόμα διψασμένο οϋτε αδειο χέρι που απλώνεται.<br />Αλλά είναι πιο πολυ μια καρδια φλογισμένη και μια ψυχη μαγεμένη.<br />Δεν είναι η εικόνα που θα θέλατε να δειτε οϋτε τό τραγούδι που θα θέλατε ν' ακούσετε,<br />Αλλα μάλλον μια εικόνα που βλέπετε παρ' όλο που κλείνετε τα μάτια σας κι ενα τραγούδι που ακούτε παρ' όλο που κλείνετε τ' αφτιά σας.<br />Δεν είναι ό χυμός μέσ' από τη φλούδα του δέντρου, οϋτε το φτερό ανάμεσα στα νύχια, αλλα είναι πιό πολυ ενας κηπος παντοτινά ανθισμένος κι ενα κοπάδι άγγελοι που αιώνια πετούν.<br />Λαε της Όρφαλεζίας, η όμορφια είναι η ζωη,όταν η ζωη φανερώνει το ιερό της πρόσωπο.<br />Αλλά εσείς ειστε η ζωη κι εσείς τό πέπλο που τη σκεπάζει.<br />Η όμορφια είναι η αιωνιότητα που ατενίζει τον εαυτό της στον καθρέφτη.<br />Αλλά εσείς είστε η αιωνιότητα κι εσείς είστε ο καθρέφτης. </div><div><em>Μετάφραση: Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-7388644564854440566?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-32997606184770040132010-09-12T23:25:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.271-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3GuuyNjhI/AAAAAAAAK-c/LnEYdcBYQmg/s1600/gibr9.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 316px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516283624733642258" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3GuuyNjhI/AAAAAAAAK-c/LnEYdcBYQmg/s400/gibr9.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>ΥΣΤΕΡΑ, ενας ερημίτης, που επισκεφτόταν την πόλη μόνο μια φορα τό χρόνο, βγηκε μπροστα και είπε, Μίλησέ μας για την Ηδονή.<br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε λέγοντας:<br />Ηδονή είναι ενα τραγούδι ελευθερίας, Αλλά δεν είναι ελευθερία.<br />Είναι το άνθισμα των πόθων σας,αλλά δεν είναι ο Kαρπός τους.<br />Είναι ένα βάθος που καλεί το ύψος, αλλά δεν είναι ούτε τό βαθυ ούτε το υψηλό. Eίvαι το φυλακισμένο πουλί που ανοίγει τα φτερά του,<br />Αλλα δεν είναι τό απέραντο διάστημα. Ναί, αληθινά, η ηδονή είναι ενα τραγούδι, ελευθερίας.<br />Και θα μου εκανε χαρα να τό τραγουδατε με όλη την καρδιά σας αλλα δε θα 'θελα να χάσετε τις καρδιές σας στό τραγούδι της.<br />Μερικοί από τους νέους σας αναζητουν την ηδονη σαν αυτη να ήταν τό παν και τους κρίνουν και τους κατηγορουν.<br />Έγω δε θα τους εκρινα ούτε θα τους καατηγορουσα. Θα τους αφηνα να αναζητουν.<br />Γιατι θα βρουν την ηδονή, αλλα όχι μόνη της<br />Ή ηδονη εχει έφτα αδελφές, που και η τελευταία από αυτες είναι πιό. όμορφη από την ηδονή.<br />Δεν εχετε ακούσει για τόν άνθρωπο που εσκαβε στό χώμα για να βρει ρίζες και βρήκε θησαυρό;<br />Και μερικοι από τους μεγαλύτερούς σας αναθυμουνται τις ήδονες με λύπη σα να ήταν αδικήματα που διέπραξαν στη μέθη.<br />Αλλα τό μετάνιωμα είναι τό συννέφιασμα της ψυχης και όχι ή τιμωρία της.<br />Αυτοι θα πρεπε να θυμουνται τις ήδονές τους μ' ευγνωμοσύνη, δπως θα θυμουνταν τη σοδεια του καλοκαιριου.<br />Κι ώστόσο αν τους κάνει παρηγορια να μετανιώνουν, αφηστε τους να παρηγορουνται<br />Και υπάρχουν ανάμεσά σας εκείνοι που δεν είναι ούτε νέοι για να αναζητουν ούτε γέροι για να θυμουνται και από τό φόβο της αναζήτησης και της θύμησης αποφεύγουν όλες τις ήδονές, για να μην παραμελήσουν τό πνευμα ή να μη τό προσβάλουν.<br />Άλλα σ' αυτα ακριβώς βρίσκεται ή ηδονή τους.<br />Κι ετσι κι αύτοι βρίσκουν ενα θησαυρό ενώ σκάβουν ψάχνοντας για ρίζες με τρεμάμενα χέρια.<br />Αλλα πέστε μου, ποιος είναι εκείνος που μπορεί να προσβάλει το πνευμα;<br />Μπορεί τό αηδόνι να προσβάλει την ησυχία της νύχτας, Ή η πυγολαμπίδα τ' αστέρια;<br />Και μπορει ή φωτια σας ή ο καπνός σας να ταράξει τόν άνεμο;<br />Νομίζετε δτι τό πνευμα είναι μια ηρεμη λιμνούλα που μπορείτε να ταράξετε μ' ενα ραβδί;<br />Πολλες φορες όταν αρνειστε στόν εαυτό σας την ευχαρίστηση, τό μόνο που κάνετε είναι να αποθηκεύετε τόν πόθο στό εσωτερικό της ύπαρξής σας.<br />Ποιός ξέρει αν αυτό που παραλείπετε σήμερα, δεν περιμένει για αύριο;<br />Ακόμα και τό σώμα σας γνωρίζει την κληρονομιά του και τη δικαιωματική του ανάγκη και δεν ξεγελιέται.<br />Και τό σώμα σας είναι ή αρπα της ψυχης σας,<br />Και εξαρτιέται από σας αν ή αρπα αυτη θα βγάλει γλυκια μουσικη η μπερδεμένους ηχους.<br />Και τώρα αναρωτιέστε μέσα στην καρδιά σας, «Πώς θα διακρίνουμε αυτό που είναι καλό στην ήδονη από εκείνο που είναι κακό;» Πηγαίνετε στα χωράφια και στους κήπους σας, κι εκεί θα μάθετε ότι η ηδονη της μέλισσσας είναι να μαζεύει μέλι από τό λουλούδι, Άλλα είναι και ήδονη του λουλουδιου να χαρίζει το μέλι του στη μέλισσα.<br />Γιατί, το λουλούδι είναι για τη μέλισσα μια πηγή ζωης, και για τό λουλούδι ή μέλισσσα είναι ο αγγελιαφόρος της αγάπης.<br />Αλλα και για τους δυό, μέλισσα και λουλούδι, τό δόσιμο και η απολαβη της ηδονής είναι μια ανάγκη και μια εκσταση. Λαε της Όρφαλεζίας, να είστε στις ηδονές σας, σαν τα λουλούδια και τις μέλισσες.</div><br /><div><em>Mετάφραση: Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3299760618477004013?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-67951907451776851802010-09-12T23:15:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.272-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3CZvfZqnI/AAAAAAAAK-U/Bhx8pzS7UKo/s1600/gib23.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 286px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516278866099415666" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI3CZvfZqnI/AAAAAAAAK-U/Bhx8pzS7UKo/s400/gib23.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div>ΜΕΤΑ, μια ιέρεια είπε, </div><div>Μίλησέ μας για την Προσευχή.<br />Κι εκείνος αποκρίθηκε λέγοντας:<br />Προσεύχεστε στη λύπη σας και στην ανάγκη σας, μακάρι να μπορούσατε να προοσεύχεστε και στην πληρότητα της χαρας σας και στις μέρες της αφθονίας σας.<br />Γιατί, τί αλλο είναι η προσευχη εκτός από επέκταση του εαυτου σας στό ζωντανό αiθέρα;<br />Κι αν σας φέρνει παρηγορια να ξεχύνετε τό σκοτάδι σας στό διάστημα, θα σας εφερνε επίσης χαρα αν ξεχύνατε στό διάστημα τό γλυκοχάραμα της καρδιας σας.<br />Κι αν δεν μπορείτε παρα να κλαίτε όταν ή ψυχή σας σας καλεί στην προσευχή, θα 'πρεπε αυτη να σας κεντρίζει ξανα και ξανά, με τό κλάμα, ωσπου να φτάσετε στό γέλιο.<br />"Όταν προσεύχεστε, ύψώνεστε και συναντατε στόν αέρα εκείνους που προσεύχονται την ϊδια εκείνη ωρα, και τους οποίους δεν μπορειτε να συναντήσετε παρα μόνο στην προσευχή.<br />Γι' αυτό, η επίσκεψή σας σ' αυτό τόν αόρατο ναό ας μη γίνεται για αλλο σκοπό εκτός από την εκσταση και τη γλυκεια επικοινωνία.<br />Γιατί, αν μπείτε στό ναό αυτο μόνο με το σκοπό να ζητήσετε, δε θα λάβετε:<br />Κι αν μπείτε σ' αυτόν μόνο, για να ταπεινώσετε τόν έαυτό σας, δε θα ανυψωθειτε:<br />Και ακόμα, κι αν μπειτε σ' αυτόν για να παρακαλέσετε για τό καλό των αλλων, δεν θα εΙσακουστείτε.<br />Είναι αρκετό να μπειτε μόνο στόν αόρατο ναό.<br />Δεν μπορω να σας διδάξω πως να προσεύχεστε με λόγια.<br />'Ό Θεός δεν ακούει τα λόγια σας εκτός εαν αυτός ό ίδιος εκφράζεται με τα χείλη σας.<br />Και δεν μπορω να σας διδάξω την προσευχη των θαλασσων και των δασων και των βουνων.<br />Άλλα εσεις που είστε γεννημένοι από τα βουνα και τα δάση και τις θάλασσες, μπορειτε να βρειτε την προσευχή σας στην καρδιά σας, Και αν μόνο τ' αφουγκραστειτε μέσα στην ησυχία της νύχτας, θα τα ακούσετε να λένε με τη σιωπή τους:<br />«Θεέ μας, που είσαι ο φτερωτός εαυτός μας, είναι η θέλησή σου μέσα μας που θέλει. Είναι ό πόθος σου μέσα μας που ποθει. Είναι η όρμή σου μέσα ,μας που μετατρέπει τις νύχτες μας, που είναι δικές σου, σε μέρες, που κι αυτες είναι δικές σου.<br />Δεν μπορουμε να σε παρακαλέσουμε για τίποτα, γιατί εσυ ξέρεις τις ανάγκες μας πριν ακόμα γεννηθουν μέσα μας:<br />Έσυ είσαι η ανάγκη μας και όταν μας δίνεις πιό πολυ από τόν έαυτό σου, μας τα δίνεις όλα.» </div><br /><div><em>Mετάφραση: Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6795190745177685180?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-5663652065029304122010-09-12T09:33:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.274-08:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI0DzaUgX5I/AAAAAAAAK9c/YHSmOJ4UlI0/s1600/gib25.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 286px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516069300372266898" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI0DzaUgX5I/AAAAAAAAK9c/YHSmOJ4UlI0/s400/gib25.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Κι ένας από τους γέροντες της πόλης είπε, Μίλησέ μας για τό Καλό και τό Κακό.<br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε:<br />Μπορω να μιλήσω για τό καλό που είναι μέσα σας, αλλα οχι για τό κακό. Γιατί, τί αλλο είναι τό κακό εκτός από τό καλό τό βασανισμένο από την πείνα του και τη δίψα του;<br />Στ' αλήθεια, όταν τό καλό πεινάει, αναζητα την τροφή του ακόμα και στις σκοτεινες σπηλιές, και όταν διψα, πίνει ακόμα και από τα στάσιμα νερά.<br />Είστε καλοι όταν είστε ενα με τόν έαυτό σας.<br />Κι ώστόσο, όταν δεν είστε ενα με τόν εαυτό σας δεν ειστε κακοί.<br />Γιατι το διαιρεμένο σπίτι δεν είναι φωλια κλεφτων είναι μόνο ενα διαιρεμένο σπίτι.<br />Κι ενα καράβι χωρις πηδάλιο μπορει να περιπλανιέται ασκοπα ανάμεσα σε επικίνδυνα ξερονήσια κι ώστόσο να μη βουλιάξει στό βυθό.<br />Ειστε καλοι δταν προσπαθειτε να δώσετε από τόν έαυτό σας. Κι ώστόσο δεν είστε κακοι όταν γυρεύετε όφελος για τόν έαυτό σας. Γιατι όταν προσπαθειτε για όφελος είστε σαν τη ρίζα που προσκολλιέται στη γη και βυζαίνει στό στηθος της.<br />Και βέβαια ό καρπός δεν μπορει να πει στη ρίζα, «Να είσαι σαν εμένα, ωριμη και γεμάτη, και πάντα να δίνεις από την αφθοονία σου».<br />Γιατί, για τον καρπό τό δόσιμο είναι ανάγκη, όπως ανάγκη είναι για τη ρίζα ή απολαβή. </div><div>Ειστε καλοι σταν ειστε ολότελα ξύπνιοι στό λόγο σας.<br />Κι ώστόσο δεν ειστε κακοι δταν κοιμάστε, ενω η γλώσσα σας πάλλεται χωρις σκοπό; Και ίσως, ακόμα και μια ασυνάρτητη όμιλία μπορει να δυναμώσει μια αδύνατη γλώσσα.<br />ΕΙστε καλοι όταν περπατατε πρός το σκοπό σας σταθερα και με τολμηρα βήματα.<br />Κι ώστόσο δεν είστε κακοι σταν προχωρειτε πρός τα κει κουτσαίνοντας.<br />Άκόμα και κεινοι που κουτσαίνουν δεν πηγαίνουν πρός τα πίσω.<br />Αλλα εσεις που είστε δυνατοι και γρήγοροι, προσέξτε να μη κουτσαίνετε μπροστα στόν κουτσό, νομίζοντας στι αυτό ειναι καλοσύνη.<br />Είστε καλοι με αναρίθμητους τρόπους, και δεν ειστε κακοι σταν δεν ειστε καλοί, Μόνο που χασομερατε και τεμπελιάζετε.<br />ΕΙναι κρίμα που τα ελάφια δεν. μπορουν να διδάξουν στις χελωνες τη γρηγοράδα.<br />Ή καλοσύνη σας βρίσκεται στη λαχτάρα σας για το μεγάλο εαυτό σας: και ή λαχτάρα αυτη βρίσκεται μέσα σε όλους σας.<br />Αλλα σε μερικους απο σας, ή λαχτάρα αυτη είναι σα χείμαρρος που τρέχει όρμητικα προς τη θάλασσα, κουβαλώντας μαζί του τα μυστικα των λοφοπλαγιων και τα τραγούδια του δάσους.</div><div>Ενώ σε αλλους είναι σάν επίπεδο ρευμα πού χάνεται στις στροφες και τις γωνίες κι αργοπορεί ωσπου νά φτάσει στην ακτή.<br />Άλλά δεν πρέπει αυτός που λαχταρα πολυ νά λέει σ' εκείνον πού λαχταρα λίγο, </div><div>"Γιατι εισαι αργος και σταματας;»<br />Γιατι ό πραγματικά καλός δε ρωτάει τον γυμνό, "που είναι τά ρουχα σου;» ουτε τον αστεγο, "Τί επαθε τό σπίτι σου;» </div><div><em>Mετάφραση: Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-566365206502930412?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-81502898155568309612010-09-12T09:25:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.276-08:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI0JlXhFIlI/AAAAAAAAK9k/dn9HOzngC_Y/s1600/gib34.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 279px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516075656171299410" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TI0JlXhFIlI/AAAAAAAAK9k/dn9HOzngC_Y/s400/gib34.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br />Ένας αστρονόμος είπε, Δάσκαλε, τί έχεις να πεις για τό Χρόνο;<br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε:<br />Θα θέλατε να μετρήσετε τό χρόνο που είναι χωρις μέτρα και αμετρος.<br />Θα θέλατε να προσαρμόσετε τη διαγωγή σας, ακόμα και να κατευθύνετε την πορεία της ψυχης σας, σύμφωνα με τις ώρες και τις εποχές.<br />Θα θέλατε να κάνετε τό χρόνο ενα ποταμάκι για να καθήσετε στην οχθη του και να παρακολουθείτε τό κύλισμά του.<br />Και μήπως δεν είναι ό Χρόνος σπως είναι ή αγάπη, αδιαίρετος και χωρις ρυθμό;<br />Αλλα αν στη σκέψη σας εχετε άνάγκη να μετρατε τό χρόνο σε εποχές, κάνετε κάθε εποχη να περιλαμβάνει όλες τις αλλες εποχές,<br />Και κάνετε τό σήμερα να αγκαλιάζει τό παρελθόν με την ανάμνηση και τό μέλλον με τη λαχτάρα.<br />Ώστόσο, το αχρονο που είναι μέσα σας εχει επίγνωση του άχρονου της ζωης,<br />Και ξέρει .ότι τό χθες δεν είναι τίποτα περισσότερο από την ανάμνηση του σήμερα, και τό αύριο, τό ονειρο του σήμερα.<br />Κι ότι αυτό που τραγουδα και διαλογίζεται μέσα σας κατοικει ακόμα μέσα στα όρια της πρώτης εκείνης στιγμης που διασκόρπισε τα αστέρια στό διάστημα.<br />Ποιός ανάμεσά σας δε νιώθει ότι ή δύναμή του ν' αγαπα είναι απεριόριστη;<br />Αλλα και ποιός, ώστόσο, δεν αίσθάνεται στι αυτη ή ϊδια ή αγάπη, αν και απεριόριστη, είναι αίχμαλωτισμένη μέσα στό κέντρο της ϋπαρξής του, και δεν πετα από σκέψη αγάπης σε αλλη σκέψη αγάπης, ούτε από πράξεις αγάπης σε αλλες πράξεις αγάπης;<br /><em>Mετάφραση: Ευάγγελος Γράψας</em></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-8150289815556830961?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-90331078218254315462010-09-12T09:14:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.278-08:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIz-LJpu-LI/AAAAAAAAK9M/9T8xMnbsu0c/s1600/gib5.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 288px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516063111144994994" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIz-LJpu-LI/AAAAAAAAK9M/9T8xMnbsu0c/s400/gib5.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>KΑΙ τότε κάποιος λόγιος είπε, Πές μας για την Όμιλία.<br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε λέγοντας:<br />Μιλάτε όταν παύετε να βρίσκεστε σε ειιρήνη με τη σκέψη σας<br />Κι όταν δεν μπορειτε άλλο πια να μείνετε στη μοναχικότητα της καρδιάς σας, τότε ζειτε στα χείλη σας, και ό ηχος είναι μία διασκέδαση κι ενα σκότωμα τού καιρού.<br />Και στην όμιλία σας τις περισσότερες φορες μισοδολοφονειται η σκέψη.<br />Γιατι η σκέψη είναι ενα πουλι τοϋ διαστήματος, και μέσα στό κλουβι τών λέξεων μπορει βέβαια να ξεδιπλώσει τα φτερά του, αλλα δεν μπορει να πετάξει.<br />"Οταν συναντατε τό φίλο σας στό δρόμο ή στην αγορά, αφηστε τό πνεϋμα που είναι μέσα σας να κινήσει τα χείλη σας και να κατευθύνει τη γλώσσα σας.<br />Άφηστε τη φωνη που είναι μέσα στη φωνή σας να μιλήσει στο αφτι του αφτιου του . Γιατι η ψυχή του θα κρατήσει την αλήθεια της καρδιάς σας, ακριβώς όπως η γλώσσα θυμάται τη γεύση του κρασιου.<br />Κι όταν τό χρώμα εχει ξεχαστει κι η κούπα δεν ύπάρχει πιά.<br />Ύπάρχουν ανάμεσά σας εκεινοι που αναζητουν τόν όμιλητικό επειδη φοβουνται να μείνουν μόνοι.<br />H σιωπη της μοναξιάς φανερώνει στα μάτια τους τους γυμνους έαυτούς τους και γι' αυτο προτιμουν να δραπετέψουν.<br />Και ύπάρχουν εκεινοι που μιλουν, και χωρις γνώση ή προηγούμενη σκέψη, φανερώνουν μια αλήθεια που κι οί ίδιοι δεν καταλαβαίνουν.<br />Και ύπάρχουν εκεινοι που εχουν την αλήθεια μέσα τους, αλλα δεν την εκφράζουν με λέξεις. Στα στήθη αυτών τών ανθρώπων κατοικει τό πνευμα μέσα στη ρυθμικη σιωπή. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-9033107821825431546?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-66944848214043038512010-09-12T06:02:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.280-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIzRcDu4zxI/AAAAAAAAK88/PHR96etnKaE/s1600/Gibran.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 146px; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516013923590524690" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIzRcDu4zxI/AAAAAAAAK88/PHR96etnKaE/s400/Gibran.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><strong>The Coming of the Ship</strong><br />Al Mustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn onto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist.Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.But he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?Too many fragments of the spirit have I scatterd in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a bruden and an ache.It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands</div><div>.......................</div><div><strong>On Love</strong></div><div>Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."</div><div>And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:When love beckons to you follow him,Though his ways are hard and steep.And when his wings enfold you yield to him,Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.And when he speaks to you believe in him,Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.He threshes you to make you naked</div><div>.........................</div><div><strong>On Marriage</strong></div><div>Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"</div><div>And he answered saying:You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.But let there be spaces in your togetherness,And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.Love one another but make not a bond of love:Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts</div><div>..................</div><div><strong>On Children</strong></div><div>And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, </div><div>"Speak to us of Children."</div><div>And he said:Your children are not your children.They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.They come through you but not from you,And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.You may give them your love but not your thoughts.For they have their own thoughts.You may house their bodies but not their souls,For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth...................On GivingThen said a rich man, "Speak to us of Giving."And he answered:You give but little when you give of your possessions.It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?And what is fear of need but need itself?Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable?There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.And there are those who have little and give it all.These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.</div><div>......................</div><div><strong>On Eating &amp; Drinking</strong></div><div>Then an old man, a keeper of an inn, said,</div><div>"Speak to us of Eating and Drinking.</div><div>"And he said:Would that you could live on the fragerance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light.But since you must kill to eat, and rob the young of its mother's milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship,And let your board stand an altar on which the pure and the innocent of forest and plain are sacrificed for that which is purer and still more innocent in many.When you kill a beast say to him in your heart,"By the same power that slays you, I to am slain; and I too shall be consumed. For the law that delivered you into my hand shall deliver me into a mightier hand.Your blood and my blood is naught but the sap that feeds the tree of heaven."And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart,"Your seeds shall live in my body</div><div>............................</div><div><strong>On Work</strong></div><div>Then a ploughman said,"Speak to us of Work."</div><div>And he answered, saying:You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison? Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written<br />......................<br /><strong>On Joy &amp; Sorrow</strong></div><div>Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."And he answered:Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.And how else can it be?The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."But I say unto you, they are inseparable</div><div>.....................</div><div><strong>On Houses</strong></div><div>Then a mason came forth and said, </div><div>"Speak to us of Houses."And he answered and said:Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.Your house is your larger body.It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.But these things are not yet to be.In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields</div><div>..........................</div><div><strong>On Clothes</strong></div><div>And the weaver said, "Speak to us of Clothes."And he answered:Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain.Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear."But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair</div><div>...................</div><div><strong>On Buying &amp; Selling</strong></div><div>And a merchant said, "Speak to us of Buying and Selling."And he answered and said:To you the earth yields her fruit, and you shall not want if you but know how to fill your hands.It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied.Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice, it will but lead some to greed and others to hunger.When in the market place you toilers of the sea and fields and vineyards meet the weavers and the potters and the gatherers of spices, -Invoke then the master spirit of the earth, to come into your midst and sanctify the scales and the reckoning that weighs value against value.And suffer not the barren-handed to take part in your transactions, who would sell their words for your labour.To such men you should say,"Come with us to the field, or go with our brothers to the sea and cast your net;For the land and the sea shall be bountiful to you even as to us."And if there come the singers and the dancers and the flute players, - buy of their gifts also.<br />..........................</div><div><strong>On Crime &amp; Punishment</strong></div><div>Then one of the judges of the city stood forth and said, "Speak to us of Crime and Punishment."And he answered saying:It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind,That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself.And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed.Like the ocean is your god-self;It remains for ever undefiled.And like the ether it lifts but the winged.Even like the sun is your god-self;It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent.But your god-self does not dwell alone in your being.Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man,But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening.And of the man in you would I now speak</div><div>..................</div><div><strong>On Laws</strong></div><div>Then a lawyer said,</div><div>"But what of our Laws, master?"And he answered:You delight in laying down laws,Yet you delight more in breaking them.Like children playing by the ocean who build sand-towers with constancy and then destroy them with laughter.But while you build your sand-towers the ocean brings more sand to the shore,And when you destroy them, the ocean laughs with you.Verily the ocean laughs always with the innocent.But what of those to whom life is not an ocean, and man-made laws are not sand-towers,But to whom life is a rock, and the law a chisel with which they would carve it in their own likeness?What of the cripple who hates dancers?What of the ox who loves his yoke and deems the elk and deer of the forest stray and vagrant things?What of the old serpent who cannot shed his skin, and calls all others naked and shameless?</div><div>..........................</div><div><strong>On Freedom</strong></div><div>And an orator said, </div><div>"Speak to us of Freedom."And he answered:At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom,Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them.Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff.And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment.You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief,But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour?In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle the eyes.</div><div>...................</div><div><strong>On Reason &amp; Passion</strong></div><div>And the priestess spoke again and said:</div><div>"Speak to us of Reason and Passion."And he answered saying:Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite.Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody.But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.If either your sails or our rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion; that it may sing;And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes</div><div>.................</div><div><strong>On Pain</strong></div><div>And a woman spoke, saying,</div><div>"Tell us of Pain."And he said:Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.Much of your pain is self-chosen.It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears</div><div>............</div><div><strong>On Self-Knowledge</strong></div><div>And a man said, "Speak to us of Self-Knowledge."And he answered, saying:Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart's knowledge.You would know in words that which you have always know in thought.You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.And it is well you should.The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure;And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.For self is a sea boundless and measureless.Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."For the soul walks upon all paths.The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.</div><div>................</div><div><strong>On Teaching</strong></div><div>Then said a teacher,</div><div>"Speak to us of Teaching."And he said:No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of our knowledge.The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness.If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding.The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm nor the voice that echoes it.And he who is versed in the science of numbers can tell of the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you thither.For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man.And even as each one of you stands alone in God's knowledge, so must each one of you be alone in his knowledge of God and in his understanding of the earth.<br />......................</div><div><strong>On Friendship</strong></div><div>And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship."Your friend is your needs answered.He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.And he is your board and your fireside.For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.When you part from your friend, you grieve not;For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.And let your best be for your friend.If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.</div><div>..............</div><div><strong>On Talking</strong></div><div>And then a scholar said, "Speak of Talking."And he answered, saying:You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape.And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth which they themselves do not understand.And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words.In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence.When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue.Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear;</div><div>........................</div><div><strong>On Time</strong></div><div>And an astronomer said, "Master, what of Time?"And he answered:You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?And yet who does not feel that very love, though boundless, encompassed within the centre of his being, and moving not form love thought to love thought, nor from love deeds to other love deeds?And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?But if in you thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,</div><div>..................</div><div><strong>On Good &amp; Evil</strong></div><div>And one of the elders of the city said, "Speak to us of Good and Evil."And he answered:Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil.For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters.You are good when you are one with yourself.Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil.For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house.And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom.You are good when you strive to give of yourself.Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast.Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, "Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance."For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.</div><div>....................</div><div><strong>On Prayer</strong></div><div>Then a priestess said, "Speak to us of Prayer."And he answered, saying:You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance.For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?And if it is for your comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart.And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing.When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet.Therefore let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion.For if you should enter the temple for no other purpose than asking you shall not receive.And if you should enter into it to humble yourself you shall not be lifted:Or even if you should enter into it to beg for the good of others you shall not be heard</div><div>.......................</div><div><strong>On Pleasure</strong></div><div>Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, "Speak to us of Pleasure."And he answered, saying:Pleasure is a freedom song,But it is not freedom.It is the blossoming of your desires,But it is not their fruit.It is a depth calling unto a height,But it is not the deep nor the high.It is the caged taking wing,But it is not space encompassed.Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song.And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing.Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked.I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek.</div><div>..........</div><div><strong>On Beauty</strong></div><div>And a poet said, "Speak to us of Beauty."Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?The aggrieved and the injured say, "Beauty is kind and gentle.Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us."And the passionate say, "Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us."The tired and the weary say, "beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow."But the restless say, "We have heard her shouting among the mountains,And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions."At night the watchmen of the city say, "Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east."And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, "we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset."</div><div>..............</div><div><strong>On Religion</strong></div><div>And an old priest said, "Speak to us of Religion."And he said:Have I spoken this day of aught else?Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom?Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?Who can spread his hours before him, saying, "This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?"All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage.The freest song comes not through bars and wires.And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.<br />..........</div><div><strong>On Death</strong></div><div>Then Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death."And he said:You would know the secret of death.But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? </div><div>..............</div><div><strong>The Farewell</strong></div><div>And now it was evening.And Almitra the seeress said, "Blessed be this day and this place and your spirit that has spoken."And he answered, Was it I who spoke? Was I not also a listener?Then he descended the steps of the Temple and all the people followed him. And he reached his ship and stood upon the deck.And facing the people again, he raised his voice and said:People of Orphalese, the wind bids me leave you.Less hasty am I than the wind, yet I must go.We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.Even while the earth sleeps we travel.We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken.But should my voice fade in your ears, and my love vanish in your memory, then I will come again,And with a richer heart and lips more yielding to the spirit will I speak.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6694484821404303851?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-90684454209250681812010-09-12T05:02:00.000-07:002011-09-13T22:11:15.056-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIzBnH_DvpI/AAAAAAAAK8s/QgTT5HFMKKc/s1600/gib26.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIzBnH_DvpI/AAAAAAAAK8s/QgTT5HFMKKc/s400/gib26.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515996521524608658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Από τα βάθη από αυτά τα βάθη<br />Σε καλούμε, Ω! Ελευθερία - ακούσε μας!<br />Από τις γωνιές του σκότους<br />Θα ανυψώσουμε τα χέρια μας σε ικεσία -<br />στρέψε το βλέμμα σου προς εμάς!<br />Από την έκταση αυτών των χιονιών<br />Γονατίζουμε μπροστά σου, ζητώντας συμπόνια για μας!<br />Βρισκόμαστε τώρα μπροστά στο τρομερό σου θρόνο με βουτηγμένα τα ρούχα μας με το αίμα των πατέρων μας!<br />καλύπτοντας τα κεφάλια μας με τη σκόνη των τάφων που ανακατέυεται με τα υπολείμματα τους! Σύροντας τα ξίφη που έχουν τυλιχθεί στα εντόσθια τους?<br />Ανυψώνοντας τις λόγχες τους που έχουν διαπεράσει τα στήθη τους!<br />Σέρνοντας τις αλυσίδες που έχουν μαράνει τα πόδια τους!<br />Κραυγάζοντας με κραυγές που έχουν πληγώσει τους λαιμούς τους,<br />Και θρήνους που έχουν γεμίσει το σκοτάδι των φυλακών τους!<br />Προσευχόμαστε με προσευχές που έχουν αναπηδήσει από τον πόνο της καρδιάς -<br />Ακούσε, Ω! Ελευθερία, ακούσέ μας!<br />Από τις πηγές του Νείλου έως τις εκβολές του Ευφράτη<br />Ο θρήνος των ψυχών που ξεχύνεται σαν θάλασσα , αυξάνεται με την κραυγή τής αββυσου!<br />Από τα σύνορα της χερσονήσου έως τα βουνά του Λιβάνου<br />Απλώνουμε τα Χέρια προς εσένα, τρέμοντας από την αγωνία του θανάτου!<br />Από τις ακτές του κόλπου έως την άκρη της ερήμου<br />Με τα μάτια μας να είναι ανυψωμένα σε σένα και με μαραζομενες καρδιές -<br />Στρέψε, Ω! Ελευθερία, και προσβλεψε σε εμάς.<br />Στις γωνιές της καλύβας που στέκεται στη σκιά της φτώχειας και της ταπείνωσης,<br />Από φυλακή σε φυλακή μεταφέρεται το σώμα μας, εμπαίζοντας τις εποχές μας -<br />Για πόσο καιρό θα αντέχουμε αυτόν τον τον εμπαιγμό των εποχών;<br />Από το ζυγό σε βαρύτερο ζυγό έχουν κάνει το λαιμό μας να περάσει<br />Και τα έθνη της γης βλέπουν όλα αυτά και γελούν μαζί μας -<br />Πόσο καιρό θα διαρκέσει αυτή η παρωδία των εθνών;<br />Από δεσμά σε δεσμά αυτή η διαδρομή μας οδηγεί,<br />Και δεν μπορούμε να εξαφανίσουμε τα δεσμά , ούτε εμεις να χαθούμε -<br />Πόσο καιρό θα πρέπει να παραμείνουμε ζωντανόι; ...<br />Από την απληστία των Φαραώ<br />Στα νύχια του Ναβουχοδονόσορ!<br />Στα καρφιά του Αλεξάνδρου!<br />Στα ξίφη του Ηρώδη!<br />Στα νύχια του Nέρωνα!<br />Στους κυνόδοντες του διαβόλου!<br />Ποιός ζυγός θα μας υποδουλώσει τώρα;<br />Και πότε θα πρέπει να εμπέσουμε στο αγκάλιασμα του θανάτου για να βρούμε την γαλήνη μακριά από τη σιωπή της ανυπαρξίας;<br />Με τη δύναμη των όπλων μας κατασκεύασαν τους πυλώνες των ναών και των ιερών για να δοξάζουν τους θεούς τους!<br />Με τις πλάτες μας έφεραν πηλό και πέτρες για να κατασκευάσουν κάστρα να ενισχύσουν τα οχυρά τους! Και με τη δύναμη των σώματων μας έχτισαν τις πυραμίδες τους για να καταστήσουν το όνομά τους αθάνατο!<br />Για πόσο καιρό θα υπάρχουμε για να χτίζουμε κάστρα και παλάτια;<br />Και όμως εμείς ζούμε σε σπηλιές και καλύβες,<br />ζωντανοί αλλα΄στις καλύβες και στις σπηλιές;<br />για πόσο καιρό θα υπάρχουμε για να γεμίζουμε τους σιτοβολώνες και τα καταστήματά τους,<br />μην τρώγοντας,τίποιτ'άλλο από σκόρδο και τριφύλλι;<br />Για πόσο καιρό θα υπάρχουμε για να υφάινουμε το μετάξι και το μαλλί,<br />Και να είμαστε ντυμένοι με κουρελιασμένα υφάσματα;<br /><br />Μέσα από την πονηριά τους και την προδοσία τους έχουν θέσει την φυλή κατά της φυλής!<br />Στήθια που χτυπιούνται για σένα!<br />Στο κενό των σπιτιών που δημιουργούνται στο σκοτάδι της άγνοιας και της τρέλας,<br />Καρδιές που χτυπούν ενωπιόν σου!<br />Και στις γωνίες των σπιτιών θάβονται τα σύννεφα της τυραννίας και της καταπίεσης,<br />Η λαχτάρα για σένα γίνεται Αποστάγμα -<br />Κοίταξέ μας, Ω! Ελευθερία, και συμπόνεσέ μας.<br />Στα σχολεία και τα γραφεία<br />Απελπισμένοι νεοι σε καλούν!<br />Σε εκκλησίες και μουσουλμανικά τεμένη<br />Το εγκαταλελημένο βιβλίο σε προσκαλεί !<br />Σε συμβούλους και στα δικαστήρια των παραμελημένων Το δίκαιο σε εκλιπαρει - έχε οίκτο , Ω! Ελευθερία, και σώσε μας.<br />Στα στενά μας δρομάκια<br />Ο έμπορος ανταλλασει τις ημέρες του μόνο για να πληρώσει τους κλέφτες από τη Δύση,<br />Και κανένας δεν είναι εκεί για να τον συμβουλεύσει!<br />Στους δικούς μας άγονους αγρούς<br />Ο αγρότης οργώνει τη γη με τα νύχια του,<br />και στ'αυλάκια του νερού ρίχνουν σπόρους δακρύων από την καρδιά τους,<br />Και δεν θα έχει συγκομιδή να αποθηκέυσει εκτός από τα αγκάθια και τους κάρδους,<br />Και κανένας δεν είναι εκεί για να τον διδάξει!<br />Στις άδειες μας πεδιάδες οι Βεδουίνοι περπατούν ξυπόλυτοι, γυμνοί και πεινασμένοι<br />Και κανένας δεν είναι εκεί για να τους ελεήσει -<br />Μίλα, Ω! Ελευθερία, και διδάξέ μας ...<br />Από την αρχή το σκοτάδι της νύχτας έχει κατέβει μεσα στις ψυχές μας -<br />Πόσος καιρός μέχρι την αυγή; Εχει διαχωρίσει την ομάδα από την ομάδα!<br />Έχει σπέιρει τους σπόρους του μίσους στις φυλές και ανάμεσα στις φυλές -<br />Πόσο καιρό θα υπάρχουμε για να διαλυθούμε στη συνέχεια όπως οι στάχτες πριν από αυτο το σκληρο τυφώνα,<br />Και πως θα πολέμησουμε σαν τα μικρά πεινασμένα λιοντάρια μπρος σε δυσώδες σφάγιο;<br />Προκειμένου να εξασφαλίσουν την δύναμή τους και να εχουν την ευχέρεια για εξουσία ,<br />έχουν οπλίσει τους Durzi να πολέμήσουν κατά του Άραβα!<br />Έχουν υποκινήσει τους Σηίτες ενάντια των Σουννιτών<br />Έχουν υποκινήσει τους Κούρδους για τη σφαγή των Bεδουινων!<br />Έχουν ενθαρρυνθεί τον Μουσουλμάνο να παλέψει με τον Χριστιανό -<br />Για πόσο καιρό ένας αδελφός θα πολεμά τον αδελφό του για το στήθος της μητέρας;<br />Για πόσο καιρό ένας γείτονας θα απειλει τον γείτονα κοντά στον τάφο της αγαπημένης του;<br />Για πόσο καιρό ο Σταυρός και η Ημισέληνος θα παραμενουν χώρια μπροστά στα μάτια του Θεού;<br />Ακούσε, Ω! Ελευθερία, και πρόσεξέ μας.<br />Στρέψτε το βλέμμα σου προς εμάς, Ω μητέρα των κατοίκων της γης,<br />Γιατί δεν είμαστε οι απόγονοι του ανταγωνιστή σου!<br />Μιλήσε μας με τη γλώσσα του κάθε ένος από εμάς.<br />Από μία μονο σπίθα ερχεται φωτιά σε ένα δεμάτι από άχυρο !<br />Ξύπνησε με τον ήχο των φτερών σου το πνεύμα του κάθε ενός από τους άνδρες<br />Γιατι από ένα σύννεφο ξεπηδάει ένας κεραυνός και φωτίζει τις λωρίδες της κοιλάδας και τις κορυφές των βουνών.<br />Διαλυσε με την απόφασή σου αυτά τα μαύρα σύννεφα?<br />Κατέβα ως κεραυνός!<br />Καταστρέψε σαν καταπέλτης,<br />Τα στηρίγματα εκείνων των θρόνων που δημιουργούνται πάνω σε οστά και σε κρανία,<br />Που είναι επικαλυμμένοι με το χρυσό των φόρων και των δωροδοκιών.<br />Και εμποτισμένοι με αίμα και δάκρυα.<br />Ακούσε μας, Ω! Ελευθερία,<br />Συμπόνεσέ μας, Ω! Κόρη της Αθηνάς,<br />Διάσωσε μας, Ω! Αδελφή της Ρώμης,<br />Σώσε μας, Ω! σύντροφος του Μωυσή,<br />Ελά να μας ενίσχυσεις, Ω! αγαπημένη του Μωάμμεθ,<br />Μάθε μας, Ω! νύφη του Ιησού,<br />Ενίσχυσε τις καρδιές μας ότι μπορεί να ζήσουν!<br />Ή ενισχύσε τα όπλα των εχθρών μας εναντίον μας.<br />Αυτό μπορεί να μας εξασθενει, να χαθούμε και να βρούμε την ειρήνη.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mετάφραση: Liza G.A..</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-9068445420925068181?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-28789304125222876612010-09-12T03:53:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.282-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyxv2JB7iI/AAAAAAAAK7U/MTHDDm3rwIw/s1600/gib17.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyxv2JB7iI/AAAAAAAAK7U/MTHDDm3rwIw/s400/gib17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515979079167372834" border="0" /></a><br /><br />ΤΟΤΕ, βγηκε μπροστα ενας χτίστης και είπε,<br />Μίλησέ μας για τα Σπίτια.<br /><br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε και είπε:<br /><br />Χτίστε από τη φαντασία σας ενα κιόσκι στην ερημιά, πριν χτίσετε ενα σπίτι μέσα στα τείχη της πόλης.<br /><br />Γιατι όπως αγαπατε τό γυρισμό στό σπίτι σας τό σούρουπο, ετσι κι ό όδοιπόρος που είναι μέσα σας αγαπα τό μακρινό και τό μοναχικό.<br /><br />Τό σπίτι σας είναι τό μεγάλο σώμα σας. Ζεί με τόν ηλιο και κοιμαται στην ήσυχία της νύχτας κι ό ύπνος του δεν είναι δίχως όνειρα. Μήπως δεν ονειρεύεται τό σπίτι σας; κι όταν ονειρεύεται, δε φεύγει από την πόλη για να βρεθεί στα περιβόλια και τις λοφοκορφές;<br /><br />Μακάρι να μπορουσα να μαζέψω τα σπίτια σας μέσα στη φούχτα μου, και σα σποορέας να τα διασκορπίσω στα δάση και στα λιβάδια.<br /><br />Μακάρι οί κοιλάδες να ήταν οί δρόμοι σας, και τα πράσινα μονοπάτια οί αλλέες σας, για να πηγαίνετε ό ενας στόν άλλο μέσα από τα αμπέλια, και να ερχεστε με τό άρωμα της γης στα ρουχα σας.<br /><br />Αλλα αυτα δεν είναι ακόμα ή ώρα για να γίνουν.<br /><br />Μέσα στό φόβο τους οί πρόγονοί σας σας μάζεψαν πολυ κοντά μαζί. Κι αυτός ό φόβος θα κρατήσει λίγο ακόμα. Λίγο ακόμα τα τείχη της πόλης θα χωρίζουν τα τζάκια σας από τα χωράφια σας<br /><br />Και πειτε μου, λαε της Όρφαλεζίας, τί εχετε μέσα σ' αυτα τα σπίτια; Και τί φυλατε πίσω από τις αμπαρωμένες πόρτες;<br /><br />'Έχετε ειρήνη, έχετε την ησυχη oρμή που φανερώνει τη δύναμή σας;<br /><br />'Έχετε αναμνήσεις, αστραφτερα τόξα που συνδέουν τις κορυφες της ψυχης;<br /><br />"Εχετε ομορφιά, που οδηγει την καρδια απο τα πράγματα που φτιάχτηκαν απο ξύλο και πέτρα προς το ίερο βουνό;<br /><br />Πειτε μου, εχετε αυτα τα πράγματα στα σπίτια σας;<br /><br />'Ή εχετε μόνο ανεση, και την ήδονη της ανεσης,<br />αυτο το ύπουλο πράγμα που μπαίνει στα σπίτια σας σαν καλεσμένος, υστερα γίίνεται φιλοξενούμενος, και μετα αφέντης;<br /><br />Ναί, κι ύστερα γίνεται δαμαστής, και με το μαστίγιο και το αγκιστρο κάνει τους πιο μεγάλους σας πόθους σα φοβισμένα κουτάβια.<br /><br />Μ' όλο που τα χέρια του είναι μεταξοντυμένα, ή καρδιά του ειναι σιδερένια.<br /><br />Σας νανουρίζει και σας αποκοιμίζει μόνο για να στέκεται πλάι στο κρεβάtι σας και<br />να εμπαίζει την αξιοπρέπεια της σάρκας. 'Εξευτελίζει τις γερες αισθήσεις σας, και τΙς ακουμπα στην ψύχα του αγκαθιου σαν ευθραυστα αγγεΙα.<br /><br />Πραγματικά, ό πόθος για ανεση σκοτώνει. τό πάθος της ψυχης σας, και ϋστερα βαδίζει μορφάζοντας αγρια στην επικήδεια πομπή σας.' Άλλα εσεις, παιδια του διαστήματος,<br />εσεις που δεν αναπαύεστε στην ανάπαυση, δε θα παγιδευτειτε, οϋτε θα δαμαστεΙτε.<br /><br />Τό σπίτι σας δε θα ειναι αγκυρα, αλλα κατάρτι.<br /><br />Δε θα ειναι λαμπερό κάλυμμα που σκεπάζει μια πληγή, αλλα βλέφαρο που προστατεύει τό μάτι.<br /><br />Δε θα μαζεύετε τα φτερά σας για να περρνατε από τις πόρτες, ουτε θα σκύβετε τα κεφάλια σας για να μη χτυπήσουν στό ταβάνι, ούτε θα φοβάστε να ανασάνετε για να μη ραγίσουν και πέσουν οί τοιχοι.<br /><br />Δε θα κατοικειτε σε τάφους που εφτιαξαν οί νεκροι για τους ζωντανούς.<br /><br />Και μ' όλη τη μεγαλοπρέπεια και λαμπράδα του, τό σπίτι σας δε θα φυλα τα μυστικά σας, οϋτε θα στεγάζει τις λαχτάρες σας.<br /><br />Γιατί, αυτό που ειναι απειρο μέσα σας, κατοικεί στα δώματα του ουρανου, που πόρρτα του ειναι ή πρωινη πάχνη, και παράθυρά του τα τραγούδια και ή σιωπη της νύχτας.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2878930412522287661?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-26051628675691750562010-09-12T02:19:00.003-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.284-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIybfE670FI/AAAAAAAAK6c/EHotcDSPG5M/s1600/Gibran.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIybfE670FI/AAAAAAAAK6c/EHotcDSPG5M/s400/Gibran.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515954601821196370" border="0" /></a>KAI, KAΠOΙOΣ άντρας είπε,<br />Μίλησέ μας για την Αυτογνωσια.<br /><br />Κι εκείνος απάντησε λέγοντας:<br /><br />Οι καρδιές σας γνωρίζουν σιωπηλα τα μυστικα των ήμερων και των νυχτων.<br /><br />Άλλα τ' αφτιά σας διψουν για τόν ήχο της γνώσης της καρδιας σας.<br /><br />Θέλετε να γνωρίσετε με λόγια αυτό που γνωρίζετε από πάντα στη σκέψη.<br /><br />Θέλετε ν' αγγίξετε με τα δάχτυλά σας τό γυμνό σωμα των ονείρων σας.<br /><br /><br />Γιατι ή ψυχη περπατα πάνω σ' δλα τα μονοπάτια.<br /><br />Ή ψυχη δεν περπατα πάνω σε μια γραμμμή, ούτε μεγαλώνει σαν καλάμι.<br /><br /> Ή ψυχη ξεδιπλώνεται, δπως ό λωτός με τα αναρίθμητα πέταλα.<br /><br /> Και είναι καλό που τό θέλετε.<br /><br />Τό κρυφό πηγάδι της ψυχης σας πρέπει να αναβλύσει και να τρέξει κελαρύζοντας πρός τη θάλασσα·<br /><br />Και ό θησαυρός του άπειρου βάθους σας πρέπει να αποκαλυφτεί στα μάτια σας.<br /><br />Δεν πρέπει όμως να υπάρχουν ζυγαριες για να ζυγίζουν τόν άγνωστο θησαυρό σας και μη μετρατε τα βάθη της γνώσης σας με τό βυθομετρικό κοντάρι ή τό σχοινί.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Γιατι ό εαυτός είναι μια θάλασσα απεριόριστη και άμετρη· </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Μη λέτε, «Βρηκα την αλήθεια», αλλα να λέτε, «Βρηκα μιαν αλήθεια». </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Μη λέτε, «Βρηκα τό μονοπάτι της ψυχης», αλλα να λέτε, «Συνάντησα την ψυχη που περπατουσε στό μονοπάτι μου». </span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2605162867569175056?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-39851097152181408392010-09-12T01:51:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.286-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyUrCqoxjI/AAAAAAAAK6M/7bKkuqNxqZ0/s1600/gibran_art_g109.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 280px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515947110793004594" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyUrCqoxjI/AAAAAAAAK6M/7bKkuqNxqZ0/s400/gibran_art_g109.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Κι ενας νέος είπε,<br />Μίλησέ μας για τη Φιλία.<br /><br />Κι εκείνος αποκρίθηκε λέγοντας:<br /><br />Ό φίλος σας είναι ή εκπλήρωση των αναγκων σας.<br /><br />Είναι τό χωράφι σας που εσείς σπέρνετε με αγάπη και θερίζετε μ' ευγνωμοσύνη.<br /><br />Και είναι τό τραπέζι σας και τό παραγώνι σας.<br /><br />Γιατι πηγαίνετε στό φίλο με την πείνα σας, και τόν αναζητατε για τη γαλήνη σας.<br /><br />Γιατι ή αγάπη που γυρεύει κάτι άλλο εκτός από την αποκάλυψη του δικου της μυστηρίου δεν είναι αγάπη παρα ενα δίχτυ που ρίχνεται στη θάλασσα και μόνο τό ανώφελο θα πιάσει.<br /><br />'Όταν ό φίλος σας εκφράζει τις σκέψεις του, δε φοβάστε τό όχι στη δική σας σκέψη, ουτε αποσιωπατε τό ναι.<br /><br />Και όταν εκείνος είναι σιωπηλός, ή καρδιά σας δεν παύει για ν' ακούσει την καρδιά του'<br /><br />Γιατι στη φιλία, όλες οι σκέψεις, όλες οι επιθυμίες, όλες οι προσδοκίες γεννιουνται καί μοιράζονται χωρις λέξεις, με χαρα που είναι άφωνη.<br /><br />'Όταν χωρίζεσαι από τό φίλο σου, δε λυπασαι.<br /><br />'Γιατί αυτό που αγαπας πιο πολυ σ' αυτόν μπορεί να είναι πιό φανερό στην απουσία του, όπως ό όρειβάτης βλέπει πιό καθαρα τό βουνό από την πεδιάδα .<br /><br />Και μη βάζετε κανένα σκοπό στη φιλία εκτός από τό βάθαιμα του πνεύματος.<br /><br />Καί δίνετε τό καλύτερο έαυτό σας στό φίλο σας.<br /><br />Άφου θα γνωρίσει την άμπωτη του κυμάτος σας, δωστε του να γνωρίσει καί την παλίρροιά του.<br /><br />Είναι ό φίλος σας κάτι που θα 'πρεπε να γυρεύετε όταν εχετε ώρες που θέλετε να σκοτώσετε;<br /><br />Καλύτερα να γυρεύετε τό φίλο σας πάντα όταν εχετε ώρες να ζήσετε.<br /><br />Γιατί εργο του φίλου είναι να εκπληρώσει τις ανάγκες σας, αλλα όχι να γεμίσει τό κενό σας.<br /><br />Και μέσα στη γλύκα της φιλίας κάνετε να ύπάρχει γέλιο, και μοίρασμα χαρας.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Γιατί στίς δροσοστάλες των μικρων πραγμάτων ή καρδια βρίσκει την καινούργια αυγή της και ξανανιώνει.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3985109715218140839?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-57410026375089164872010-09-12T01:47:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.288-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyUBC47_yI/AAAAAAAAK6E/tDWiLxLQzrA/s1600/gibran_art_g108.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyUBC47_yI/AAAAAAAAK6E/tDWiLxLQzrA/s400/gibran_art_g108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515946389298478882" border="0" /></a><br />ΤΟΤΕ, ενας δάσκαλος είπε, Μίλησέ μας για τη Διδαχή.<br /><br />Κι εκείνος είπε:<br /><br />Κανένας ανθρωπος δεν μπορεί ν' αποκαλύψει σε σας τίποτε αλλο εκτος απο εκείνο που βρίσκεται κιόλας μισοξύπνιο στη χαραυγη της γνώσης σας.<br /><br />Ό δάσκαλος περιδιαβάζει στη σκια του ναου, ανάμεσα στους μαθητές του, δε δίνει απο τη σοφία του αλλα μαλλον απο την πίστη καΙ την αγάπη του.<br /><br />'Άν ειvαι πραγματικα σοφός, δε σας προσκαλεί ποτέ.στο σπίτι της σοφίας του, αλλά, μάλλο σας οδηγεί στο κατώφλι του δικου σας νου.<br /><br />Ο αστρονόμος μπορεί να σας μιλήσει για τη γνώση του που εχει για το διάστημα, αλλα δεν μπορεί να σας δώσει τη γνώση του.<br /><br />·0 μουσικος μπορεί να σας τραγουδήσει για το ρυθμο που ύπάρχει σε όλόκληρο το διάστημα, αλλα δεν μπορεί να σας δώσει το αφτί που συλλαμβάνει το ρυθμό, οϋτε τη φωνη που τον αντιλαλεί.<br /><br />Κι εκείνος που είναι εμπειρος στην επιστήμη τών αριθμών, μπορεί να σας πεί για τα μέτρα και τα σταθμά, αλλα δεν μπορεί να σας όδηγήσει στην περιοχή τους.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Γιατί το όραμα ένος ανθρώπου δεν μπορεί να δανείσει τα φτερά του στον αλλο ανθρωπο.</span><br /><br />Και όπως καθένας απο σας στέκεται μόνος στη γνώση του Θεου,<br />ετσι πρέπει καθένας από σας να είναι μόνος στη δική του γνώση για τό Θεό και στη δική του κατανόηση της γης.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5741002637508916487?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-57136768465851372702010-09-12T01:24:00.000-07:002010-11-24T11:25:25.289-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyPrKyFrLI/AAAAAAAAK58/TykPhBPzpQE/s1600/gib11.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yokOe6EL0is/TIyPrKyFrLI/AAAAAAAAK58/TykPhBPzpQE/s400/gib11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515941615413603506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />ΜΕΤΑ, ενας από τους δικαστες της πόόλης βγηκε μπροστα και εΙπε,<br /><br />-Μίλησέ μας για το 'Έγκλημα και την Τιμωρία.<br /><br />Κι εκεινος αποκρίθηκε, λέγοντας:<br /><br />Είναι σταν, η ψυχή σου περιπλανιέται στον ανεμο,<br />που εσύ, μόνος και αφύλαχτος, κάνεις αδίκημα στους αλλους και έπομένως στόν έαυτό σου.<br />Και γι' αυτο το αδίκημα που διέπραξες όφείλεις να κρούσεις και να περιμένεις λίγο καιρο αφύλαχτος στην πόρτα του ευλογημένου.<br />Σαν τόν ωκεανό είναι τό θεϊκό σου είναι· Και μένει πάντα αμόλυντο.<br />Και σαν τόν αιθέρα δεν ανυψώνει παρα μόνο αυτους που εχουν φτερά.<br />Άκόμα και σαν τόν ηλιο είναι τό θεϊκό σου είναι"<br /><br />Δε γνωρίζει τους ύπόγειους δρόμους του τυφλοπόντικα ουτε γυρεύει τις τρύπες του έρπετου.<br />Άλλα τό θεϊκό σου ειναι δεν κατοικει μόνο μέσα στην ϋπαρξή σου.<br />Πολλα από όσα είναι μέσα σου είναι ακόμα ανθρωπος, και πολλα απ' αυτα δεν είναι ακόμα ανθρωπος,<br />Άλλα ενας αμορφος πυγμαίος που προχωρεί κοιμισμένος μέσα στην ομίχλη ψάχνοντας για τό ξύπνημά του.<br /><br /><br />Και για τόν ανθρωπο που βρίσκεται μέσα σου θα ηθελα τώρα να μιλήσω.<br />Γιατι αυτός είναι που γνωρίζει τό εγκλημα και την τιμωρία του εγκλήματος, και όχι ό θεϊκος σου έαυτός οϋτε ό πυγμαιος που ζει στη σκοτεινιά.<br />Πολλες φορες σε ακουσα να μιλας για κάποιον που διέπραξε αδίκημα ώσαν αυτός να μην ηταν ενας από δλους σας, αλλα ενας ξένος για σας, ενας παρείσακτος στόν κόσμο σας.<br /><br />Έγω δμως σας λέω δτι δπως ό αγιος και ό δίκαιος δεν μπορει να ύψωθει πάνω από το πιό ψηλό σημειο που βρίσκεται σε καθένα από σας,<br />'Έτσι κι ό πονηρός κι ό αδύνατος δεν μπορουν να πέσουν πιό χαμηλα από τό χαμηλότερο σημειο που βρίσκεται πάλι μέσα στόν καθένα σας.<br />Κι όπως τό ενα μόνο φύλλο δεν κιτρινίζει παρα μονάχα με τη βουβη γνώση όλου του δέντρου,<br />'Έτσι κι ό παραβάτης δεν μπορει να κάνει αδίκημα χωρις την κρυφη θέληση δλων σας.<br />Σα μια πομπη βαδίζετε δλοι μαζι πρός τό θεϊκό σας έαυτό.<br /><br />Έσεις είστε ό δρόμος και οΙ όδοιπόροι. Κι δταν κάποιος από σας πέφτει,<br />τό πέσιμό του είναι για κείνους που ακολουθουν, μια προφύλαξη ενάντια στην πέτρα δπου μπορουν να σκουντουφλήσουν.<br />Ναί, και τό πέσιμό του είναι και απ' αυτους που είναι μπροστά του, πού, μ' δλο που είχαν πιό γρήγορο και πιο σίγουρο βημα, ώστόσο δεν εβγαλαν τό πέτρινο εμπόδιο από τό δρόμο.<br /><br />Και θα πω ακόμα, παρ' δλο που ή λέξη μπορει να είναι βαρια για την καρδιά σας: ·0 δολοφονημένος δεν είναι χωρις ευθύνη για το θάνατό του, κι ό ληστεμένος φταίει κι ό ιδιος για τό λήστεμά του.<br /><br />Οί δίκαιοι δεν ειναι αθωοι για τις πράξεις των πονηρων,<br />Κι εκείνος με τα καθαρα χέρια δεν είναι ανεύθυνος για τις πράξεις του κακούργου.<br />Ναί, ό ενοχος είναι πολλες φορες το θύμα του κακοποιημένου.<br />Κι ακόμα πιο συχνα ό καταδικασμένος είναι εκεινος που κουβαλα το φορτίο για λογαριασμο των αθώων και των ακατάκριτων.<br /><br />Δεν μπορειτε να ξεχωρίσετε τόν δίκαιο απο τόν (ίδικο και τον καλο απο τον πονηρό' Γιατι κι οί δυο στέκονται μαζι μπροστα στο πρόσωπο του ηλιου καθως ή μαύρη και ή ασπρη κλωστη ύφαίνονται μαζί.<br />Κι όταν ή μαύρη κλωστη σπάζει, ό ύφαντουργός θα προσέξει όλο τό ύφασμα, και θα εξετάσει επίσης και τον αργαλειό.<br /><br />Άν κάποιος απο σας φέρει μπροστα στη δικαιοσύνη την απιστη σύζυγο,<br />Θα πρέπει επίσης να ζυγίσει την καρδια του συζύγου της στη ζυγαριά, και να μετρήσει την ψυχή του με μέτρα.<br />Και αυτός που θα καταδίκαζε σε μαστίγωμα τόν αδικητή, θα πρέπει να ερευνήσει και την ψυχή του αδικημένου.<br /><br />'Άν κάποιος από σας θα ήθελε να τιμωρήσει στό ονομα της δικαιοσύνης και να κατεβάσει τό τσεκούρι πάνω στό κακό δέντρο, θα πρέπει να κοιτάξει και τις ρίζες του'<br />Και τότε αληθινα θα δει δτι οι ρίζες του καλου και του κακου, του καρποφόρου και του ακαρπου, ειναι τυλιγμένες όλες μαζι στη σιωπηλη καρδια της γης.<br /><br />Κι εσεις δικαστες που θέλετε να ειστε δίκαιοι.<br />Τί κρίση θα βγάλετε γι' αυτόν που αν και ειναι τίμιος στα χέρια ειναι όμως κλέφτης στη σκέψη;<br />Και ποιά ποινη θα βάζατε σ αυτον που σκοτώνει τη σάρκα, αλλα δολοφονειται ό ίδιος στην ψυχή;<br />Και πως θα τιμωρήσετε εκεινον που στην πράξη είναι δόλιος και καταπιεστής,<br />Άλλα που είναι κι ό ίδιος αδικημένος και εξευτελισμένος;<br />Και πως θα τιμωρήσετε εκεί νους που οι<br />τύψεις τους ειναι κιόλας πολυ μεγαλύτερες από τα αδικήματά τους;<br /><br />Δεν ειναι οι τύψεις ή δικαιοσύνη που απονέμει δ ίδιος εκείνος νόμος που εσείς θέλετε να ύπηρετείτε;<br />Δεν μπορείτε δμως να βάλετε τύψεις στην καρδια του αθώου, ούτε να τις αφαιρέσετε από την καρδια του ενόχου.<br />Άπρόσκλητες οι τύψεις θα καλουν μέέσα στη νύχτα, ετσι που οι άνθρωποι να ξυπνουν και να αντικρύζουν τόν έαυτό τους.<br />Κι εσείς που θέλετε να κατανοήσετε τη δικαιοσύνη, πως θα τό μπορέσετε, παρα μόνο αν αντικρύσετε δλες τις πράξεις στό πιο δυνατό και καθαρό φως;<br /><br />Μόνο τότε θα καταλάβετε ότι <span style="font-weight: bold;">αυτοι που στέκονται όρθιοι και αυτοι που εχουν πέσει δεν ειναι παρα ενας άνθρωπος που στέκεται στό μισοσκόταδο ανάμεσα στη νύχτα του πυγμαίου έαυτου του και τη μέρα του θείου έαυτου του.</span><br /><br />Και ότι <span style="font-weight: bold;">ο γωνιόλιθος του ναου δε βρίσκεται ψηλότερα από τόν πιό χαμηλο λίθο στα θεμέλιά του.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5713676846585137270?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-39147581966638353222009-09-28T00:26:00.000-07:002009-09-28T00:38:12.811-07:00· THE FORERUNNER<br />· GOD'S FOOL<br />· LOVE<br />· THE KING−HERMIT<br />· THE LION'S DAUGHTER<br />· TYRANNY<br />· THE SAINT<br />· THE PLUTOCRAT<br />· THE GREATER SELF<br />· WAR AND THE SMALL NATIONS<br />· CRITICS<br />· POETS<br />· THE WEATHER−COCK<br />· THE KING OF ARADUS<br />· OUT OF MY DEEPER HEART<br />· DYNASTIES<br />· KNOWLEDGE AND HALF−KNOWLEDGE<br />· "SAID A SHEET OF SNOW−WHITE PAPER...<br />· THE SCHOLAR AND THE POET<br />· VALUES<br />· OTHER SEAS<br />· REPENTANCE<br />· THE DYING MAN AND THE VULTURE<br />· BEYOND MY SOLITUDE<br />· THE LAST WATCH<br /><br />............................................<br /><br />THE FORERUNNER<br />You are your own forerunner, and the towers you have builded are but the foundation of your giant−self. Andthat self too shall be a foundation.And I too am my own forerunner, for the long shadow stretching before me at sunrise shall gather under myfeet at the noon hour. Yet another sunrise shall lay another shadow before me, and that also shall be gatheredat another noon.Always have we been our own forerunners, and always shall we be. And all that we have gathered and shallgather shall be but seeds for fields yet unploughed. We are the fields and the ploughmen, the gatherers and thegathered.When you were a wandering desire in the mist, I too was there a wandering desire. Then we sought oneanother, and out of our eagerness dreams were born. And dreams were time limitless, and dreams were spacewithout measure.And when you were a silent word upon life's quivering lips, I too was there, another silent word. Then lifeuttered us and we came down the years throbbing with memories of yesterday and with longing for tomorrow,for yesterday was death conquered and tomorrow was birth pursued.And now we are in God's hands. You are a sun in His right hand and I an earth in His left hand. Yet you arenot more, shining, than I, shone upon.And we, sun and earth, are but the beginning of a greater sun and a greater earth. And always shall we be thebeginning.You are your own forerunner, you the stranger passing by the gate of my garden.And I too am my own forerunner, though I sit in the shadows of my trees and seem motionless.<br /><br />*<br />GOD'S FOOL<br />Once there came from the desert to the great city of Sharia a man who was a dreamer, and he had naught buthis garment and staff.And as he walked through the streets he gazed with awe and wonder at the temples and towers and palaces,for the city of Sharia was of surpassing beauty. And he spoke often to the passers−by, questioning them abouttheir city−−but they understood not his language, nor he their language.At the noon hour he stopped before a vast inn. It was built of yellow marble, and people were going in andcoming out unhindered."This must be a shrine,' he said to himself, and he too went in. But what was his surprise to find himself in ahall of great splendour and a large company of men and women seated about many tables. They were eatingand drinking and listening to the musicians.'Nay,' said the dreamer. 'This is no worshipping. It must be a feast given by the prince to the people, incelebration of a great event.'At that moment a man, whom he took to be the slave of the prince, approached him, and bade him be seated.And he was served with meat and wine and most excellent sweets.When he was satisfied, the dreamer rose to depart. At the door he was stopped by a large man magnificentlyarrayed.'Surely this is the prince himself,' said the dreamer in his heart, and he bowed to him and thanked him.Then the large man said in the language of the city:'Sir, you have not paid for your dinner.' And the dreamer did not understand, and again thanked him heartily.Then the large man bethought him, and he looked more closely upon the dreamer. And he saw that he was astranger, clad in but a poor garment, and that indeed he had not wherewith to pay for his meal. Then the large<br />man clapped his hands and called−−and there came four watchmen of the city. And they listened to the largeman. Then they took the dreamer between them, and they were two on each side of him. And the dreamernoted the ceremoniousness of their dress and of their manner and he looked upon them with delight. 'These,'said he, 'are men of distinction.'And they walked all together until they came to the House of Judgement and they entered.The dreamer saw before him, seated upon a throne, a venerable man with flowing beard, robed majestically.And he thought he was the king. And he rejoiced to be brought before him.Now the watchmen related to the judge, who was the venerable man, the charge against the dreamer, and thejudge appointed two advocates, one to present the charge and the other to defend the stranger. And theadvocates rose, the one after the other, and delivered each his argument. And the dreamer thought himself tobe listening to addresses of welcome, and his heart filled with gratitude to the king and the prince for all thatwas done for him.Then sentence was passed upon the dreamer, that upon a tablet about his neck his crime should be written, andthat he should ride through the city on a naked horse, with a trumpeter and a drummer before him. And thesentence was carried out forthwith.Now as the dreamer rode through the city upon the naked horse, with the trumpeter and the drummer beforehim, the inhabitants of the city came running forth at the sound of the noise, and when they saw him theylaughed one and all, and the children ran after him in companies from street to street. And the dreamer's heartwas filled with ecstasy, and his eyes shone upon them. For to him the tablet was a sign of the king's blessingand the procession was in his honour.Now as he rode, he saw among the crowd a man who was from the desert like himself and his heart swelledwith joy, and he cried out to him with a shout:'Friend! Friend! Where are we? What city of the heart's desire is this? What race of lavish hosts, who feast thechance guest in their palaces, whose princes companion him, whose kings hangs a token upon his breast andopens to him the hospitality of a city descended from heaven?'And he who was also of the desert replied not. He only smiled and slightly shook his head. And theprocession passed on.And the dreamer's face was uplifted and his eyes were overflowing with light.<br /><br />*<br />LOVE<br />They say the jackal and the moleDrink from the selfsame streamWhere the lion comes to drink.And they say the eagle and the vultureDig their beaks into the same carcass,And are at peace, one with the other,In the presence of the dead thing.O love, whose lordly handHas bridled my desires,And raised my hunger and my thirstTo dignity and pride,Let not the strong in me and the constantEat the bread or drink the wineThat tempt my weaker self.Let me rather starve,And let my heart parch with thirst,And let me die and perish,Ere I stretch my handTo a cup you did not fill,Or a bowl you did not bless.<br /><br />*<br />THE KING−HERMIT<br />They told me that in a forest among the mountains lives a young man in solitude who once was a king of avast country beyond the Two Rivers. And they also said that he, of his own will, had left his throne and theland of his glory and come to dwell in the wilderness.And I said, "I would seek that man, and learn the secret of his heart; for he who renounces a kingdom mustneeds be greater than a kingdom."On that very day I went to the forest where he dwells. And I found him sitting under a white cypress, and inhis hand a reed as if it were a sceptre. And I greeted him even as I would greet a king. And he turned to meand said gently, "What would you in this forest of serenity? Seek you a lost self in the green shadows, or is it ahome−coming in your twilight?"And I answered, "I sought but you −−for I fain would know that which made you leave a kingdom for aforest."And he said, "Brief is my story, for sudden was the bursting of the bubble. It happened thus: one day as I satat a window in my palace, my chamberlain and an envoy from a foreign land were walking in my garden. Andas they approached my window, the lord chamberlain was speaking of himself and saying, 'I am like the king;I have a thirst for strong wine and a hunger for all games of chance. And like my lord the king I have stormsof temper.' And the lord chamberlain and the envoy disappeared among the trees. But in a few minutes theyreturned, and this time the lord chamberlain was speaking of me, and he was saying, 'My lord the king is likemyself −−a good marksman; and like me he loves music and bathes thrice a day.' "After a moment he added, "On the eve of that day I left my palace with but my garment, for I would no longerbe ruler over those who assume my vices and attribute to me their virtues."And I said, "This is indeed a wonder, and passing strange."And he said, "Nay, my friend, you knocked at the gate of my silences and received but a trifle. For who wouldnot leave a kingdom for a forest where the seasons sing and dance ceaselessly? Many are those who havegiven their kingdom for less than solitude and the sweet fellowship of aloneness. Countless are the eagles whodescend from the upper air to live with moles that they may know the secrets of the earth. There are those whorenounce the kingdom of dreams that they may not seem distant from the dreamless. And those who renouncethe kingdom of nakedness and cover their souls that others may not be ashamed in beholding truth uncoveredand beauty unveiled. And greater yet than all of these is he who renounces the kingdom of sorrow that he maynot seem proud and vainglorious."Then rising he leaned upon his reed and said, "Go now to the great city and sit at its gate and watch all thosewho enter into it and those who go out. And see that you find him who, though born a king, is withoutkingdom; and him who though ruled in flesh rules in spirit −−though neither he nor his subjects know this;and him also who but seems to rule yet is in truth slave of his own slaves."After he had said these things he smiled on me, and there were a thousand dawns upon his lips. Then heturned and walked away into the heart of the forest.And I returned to the city, and I sat at its gate to watch the passers−by even as he had told me. And from thatday to this numberless are the kings whose shadows have passed over me and few are the subjects over whommy shadow passed.<br /><br />*<br />THE LION'S DAUGHTER<br />Four slaves stood fanning an old queen who was asleep upon her throne. And she was snoring. And upon thequeen's lap a cat lay purring and gazing lazily at the slaves.The first slave spoke, and said, "How ugly this old woman is in her sleep. See her mouth droop; and shebreathes as if the devil were choking her."Then the cat said, purring, "Not half so ugly in her sleep as you in your waking slavery."And the second slave said, "You would think sleep would smooth her wrinkles instead of deepening them.She must be dreaming of something evil."And the cat purred, "Would that you might sleep also and dream of your freedom."And the third slave said, "Perhaps she is seeing the procession of all those that she has slain."And the cat purred, "Aye, she sees the procession of your forefathers and your descendants."And the fourth slave said, "It is all very well to talk about her, but it does not make me less weary of standingand fanning."And the cat purred, "You shall be fanning to all eternity; for as it is on earth, so it is in heaven."At this moment the old queen nodded in her sleep, and her crown fell to the floor.And one of the slaves said, "That is a bad omen."And the cat purred, "The bad omen of one is the good omen of another."And the second slave said, "What if she should wake, and find her crown fallen! She would surely slay us."And the cat purred, "Daily from your birth she has slain you and you know it not."And the third slave said, "Yes, she would slay us and she would call it making a sacrifice to the gods."And the cat purred, "Only the weak are sacrificed to the gods."And the fourth slave silenced the others, and softly he picked up the crown and replaced it, without wakingher, on the old queen's head.And the cat purred, "Only a slave restores a crown that has fallen."And after a while the old queen woke, and she looked about her and yawned. Then she said, "Methought Idreamed, and I saw four caterpillars chased by a scorpion around the trunk of an ancient oak tree. I like notmy dream."Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep again. And she snored. And the four slaves went on fanning her.And the cat purred, "Fan on, fan on, stupids. You fan but the fire that consumes you."<br /><br />*<br />TYRANNY<br />Thus sings the she−dragon that guards the seven caves by the sea:"My mate shall come riding on the waves. His thundering roar shall fill the earth with fear, and the flames ofhis nostrils shall set the sky afire. At the eclipse of the moon we shall be wedded, and at the eclipse of the sunI shall give birth to a Saint George, who shall slay me."Thus sings the she−dragon that guards the seven caves by the sea.<br /><br />*<br />THE SAINT<br />In my youth I once visited a saint in his silent grove beyond the hills; and as we were conversing upon thenature of virtue a brigand came limping wearily up the ridge. When he reached the grove he knelt downbefore the saint and said, "O saint, I would be comforted! My sins are heavy upon me."And the saint replied, "My sins, too, are heavy upon me."And the brigand said, "But I am a thief and a plunderer."And the saint replied, "I too am a thief and a plunderer."And the brigand said, "But I am a murderer, and the blood of many men cries in my ears."And the saint replied, " I am a murderer, and in my ears cries the blood of many men."And the brigand said, "I have committed countless crimes."And the saint replied, "I too have committed crimes without number."Then the brigand stood up and gazed at the saint, and there was a strange look in his eyes. And when he left ushe went skipping down the hill.And I turned to the saint and said, "Wherefore did you accuse yourself of uncommitted crimes? See you notthis man went away no longer believing in you?"And the saint answered, "It is true he no longer believes in me. But he went away much comforted."At that moment we heard the brigand singing in the distance, and the echo of his song filled the valley withgladness.<br /><br />*<br />THE PLUTOCRAT<br />In my wanderings I once saw upon an island a man−headed, iron−hoofed monster who ate of the earth anddrank of the sea incessantly. And for a long while I watched him. Then I approached him and said, "Have younever enough; is your hunger never satisfied and your thirst never quenched?"And he answered saying, "Yes, I am satisfied, nay, I am weary of eating and drinking; but I am afraid thattomorrow there will be no more earth to eat and no more sea to drink."<br /><br />*<br />THE GREATER SELF<br />This came to pass. After the coronation of Nufsibaal King of Byblus, he retired to his bed−chamber −−thevery room which the three hermit−magicians of the mountains had built for him. He took off his crown andhis royal raiment, and stood in the centre of the room thinking of himself, now the all−powerful ruler ofByblus.Suddenly he turned; and he saw stepping out of the silver mirror which his mother had given him, a nakedman.The king was startled, and he cried out to the man, "What would you?"And the naked man answered, "Naught but this: Why have they crowned you king?"And the king answered, "Because I am the noblest man in the land."Then the naked man said, "If you were still more noble, you would not be king."And the king said, "Because I am the mightiest man in the land they crowned me."<br /><br />*<br />WAR AND THE SMALL NATIONS<br />Once, high above a pasture, where a sheep and a lamb were grazing, an eagle was circling and gazing hungrilydown upon the lamb. And as he was about to descend and seize his prey, another eagle appeared and hoveredabove the sheep and her young with the same hungry intent. Then the two rivals began to fight, filling the skywith their fierce cries.The sheep looked up and was much astonished. She turned to the lamb and said:"How strange, my child, that these two noble birds should attack one another. Is not the vast sky large enoughfor both of them? Pray, my little one, pray in your heart that God may make peace between your wingedbrothers."And the lamb prayed in his heart.<br /><br />*<br />CRITICS<br />One nightfall a man travelling on horseback towards the sea reached an inn by the roadside. He dismountedand, confident in man and night like all riders towards the sea, he tied his horse to a tree beside the door andentered into the inn.At midnight, when all were asleep, a thief came and stole the traveller's horse.In the morning the man awoke, and discovered that his horse was stolen. And he grieved for his horse, andthat a man had found it in his heart to steal.Then his fellow lodgers came and stood around him and began to talk.And the first man said, "How foolish of you to tie your horse outside the stable."And the second said, " Still more foolish, without even hobbling the horse!"And the third man said, "It is stupid at best to travel to the sea on horseback."And the fourth said, "Only the indolent and the slow of foot own horses."Then the traveller was much astonished. At last he cried, "My friends, because my horse was stolen, you havehastened one and all to tell me my faults and my shortcomings. But strange, not one word of reproach haveyou uttered about the man who stole my horse."And the naked man said, "If you were mightier yet, you would not be king."Then the king said, "Because I am the wisest man they crowned me king."And the naked man said, "If you were still wiser you would not choose to be king."Then the king fell to the floor and wept bitterly.The naked man looked down upon him. Then he took up the crown and with tenderness replaced it upon theking's bent head.And the naked man, gazing lovingly upon the king, entered into the mirror.And the king roused, and straightway he looked into the mirror. And he saw there but himself crowned.<br /><br />*<br />POETS<br />Four poets were sitting around a bowl of punch that stood on a table.Said the first poet, "Methinks I see with my third eye the fragrance of this wine hovering in space like a cloudof birds in an enchanted forest."The second poet raised his head and said, "With my inner ear I can hear those mist−birds singing. And themelody holds my heart as the white rose imprisons the bee within her petals."The third poet closed his eyes and stretched his arm upwards, and said, "I touch them with my hand. I feeltheir wings, like the breath of a sleeping fairy, brushing against my fingers."Then the fourth poet rose and lifted up the bowl, and he said, "Alas, friends! I am too dull of sight and ofhearing and of touch. I cannot see the fragrance of this wine, nor hear its song, nor feel the beating of itswings. I perceive but the wine itself. Now therefore must I drink it, that it may sharpen my senses and raiseme to your blissful heights."And putting the bowl to his lips, he drank the punch to the very last drop.The three poets, with their mouths open, looked at him aghast, and there was a thirsty yet unlyrical hatred intheir eyes.<br /><br />*<br />THE WEATHER−COCK<br />Said the weather−cock to the wind, "How tedious and monotonous you are! Can you not blow any other waybut in my face? You disturb my God−given stability."And the wind did not answer. It only laughed in space.<br /><br />*<br />THE KING OF ARADUS<br />Once the elders of the city of Aradus presented themselves before the king, and besought of him a decree toforbid to men all wine and all intoxicants within their city.And the king turned his back upon them and went out from them laughing.Then the elders departed in dismay.At the door of the palace they met the lord chamberlain. And the lord chamberlain observed that they weretroubled, and he understood their case.Then he said, "Pity, my friends! Had you found the king drunk, surely he would have granted you your petition.<br /><br />*<br />OUT OF MY DEEPER HEART<br />Out of my deeper heart a bird rose and flew skywards.Higher and higher did it rise, yet larger and larger did it grow.At first it was but like a swallow, then a lark, then an eagle, then as vast as a spring cloud, and then it filled thestarry heavens.Out of my heart a bird flew skywards. And it waxed larger as it flew. Yet it left not my heart.O my faith, my untamed knowledge, how shall I fly to your height and see with you man's larger selfpencilled upon the sky?How shall I turn this sea within me into mist, and move with you in space immeasurable?How can a prisoner within the temple behold its golden domes?How shall the heart of a fruit be stretched to envelop the fruit also?O my faith, I am in chains behind these bars of silver and ebony, and I cannot fly with you.Yet out of my heart you rise skyward, and it is my heart that holds you, and I shall be content.<br /><br />*<br />DYNASTIES<br />The queen of Ishana was in travail of childbirth; and the king and the mighty men of his court were waiting inbreathless anxiety in the great hall of the Winged Bulls.At eventide there came suddenly a messenger in haste and prostrated himself before the king, and said, "Ibring glad tidings unto my lord the king, and unto the kingdom and the slaves of the king. Mihrab the Cruel,thy life−long enemy, the king of Bethroun, is dead."When the king and the mighty men heard this, they all rose and shouted for joy; for the powerful Mihrab, hadhe lived longer, had assuredly overcome Ishana and carried the inhabitants captive.At this moment the court physician also entered the hall of Winged Bulls, and behind him came the royalmidwives. And the physician prostrated himself before the king, and said, "My lord the king shall live forever, and through countless generations shall he rule over the people of Ishana. For unto thee, O King, is bornthis very hour a son, who shall be thy heir."Then indeed was the soul of the king intoxicated with joy, that in the same moment his foe was dead and theroyal line was established.<br /><br />*<br /><br />KNOWLEDGE AND HALF−KNOWLEDGE<br />Four frogs sat upon a log that lay floating on the edge of a river. Suddenly the log was caught by the currentand swept slowly down the stream. The frogs were delighted and absorbed, for never before had they sailed.At length the first frog spoke, and said, "This is indeed a most marvellous log. It moves as if alive. No suchlog was ever known before."Then the second frog spoke, and said, "Nay, my friend, the log is like other logs, and does not move. It is theriver that is walking to the sea, and carries us and the log with it."And the third frog spoke, and said, "It is neither the log nor the river that moves. The moving is in ourthinking. For without thought nothing moves."And the three frogs began to wrangle about what was really moving. The quarrel grew hotter and louder, butthey could not agree.Then they turned to the fourth frog, who up to this time had been listening attentively but holding his peace,and they asked his opinion.And the fourth frog said, "Each of you is right, and none of you is wrong. The moving is in the log and thewater and our thinking also."And the three frogs became very angry, for none of them was willing to admit that his was not the wholetruth, and that the other two were not wholly wrong.Then a strange thing happened. The three frogs got together and pushed the fourth frog off the log into theriver.<br /><br />*<br />"SAID A SHEET OF SNOW−WHITE PAPER...<br />"Said a sheet of snow−white paper, "Pure was I created, and pure will I remain for ever. I would rather be burntand turn to white ashes than suffer darkness to touch me or the unclean to come near me."<br />The ink−bottle heard what the paper was saying, and it laughed in its dark heart; but it never dared toapproach her. And the multicoloured pencils heard her also, and they too never came near her.And the snow−white sheet of paper did remain pure and chaste for ever, pure and chaste −−and empty.<br /><br />*<br />THE SCHOLAR AND THE POET<br />Said the serpent to the lark, "Thou flyest, yet thou canst not visit the recesses of the earth where the sap of lifemoveth in perfect silence."And the lark answered, "Aye, thou knowest over much, nay thou art wiser then all things wise −−pity thoucanst not fly."And as if he did not hear, the serpent said, "Thou canst not see the secrets of the deep, nor move among thetreasures of the hidden empire. It was but yesterday I lay in a cave of rubies. It is like the heart of a ripepomegranate, and the faintest ray of light turns into a flame−rose. Who but me can behold such marvels?"And the lark said, "None, none but thee can lie among the crystal memories of the cycles −−pity thou canstnot sing."And the serpent said, "I know a plant whose root descends to the bowels of the earth, and he who eats of thatroot becomes fairer than Ashtarte."And the lark said, "No one, no one but thee could inveil the magic thought of the earth −−pity thou canst notfly."And the serpent said, "There is a purple stream that runneth under a mountain, and he who drinketh of it shallbecome immortal even as the gods. Surely no bird or beast can discover that purple stream."And the lark answered, "If thou willest thou canst become deathless even as the gods −−pity thou canst notsing."And the serpent said, "I know a buried temple, which I visit once a moon. It was built by a forgotten race ofgiants, and upon its walls are graven the secrets of time and space, and he who reads them shall understandthat which passeth all understanding."And the lark said, "Verily, if thou so desirest thou canst encircle with thy pliant body all knowledge of timeand space −−pity thou canst not fly."Then the serpent was disgusted, and as he turned and entered into his hole he muttered, "Empty−headedsongster!"And the lark flew away singing, "Pity thou canst not sing. Pity, pity, my wise one, thou canst not fly."<br /><br />*<br /><br />VALUES<br />Once a man unearthed in his field a marble statue of great beauty. And he took it to a collector who loved allbeautiful things and offered it to him for sale, and the collector bought it for a large price. And they parted.And as the man walked home with his money he thought, and he said to himself, "How much life this moneymeans! How can anyone give all this for a dead carved stone buried and undreamed of in the earth for athousand years?"And now the collector was looking at his statue, and he was thinking, and he said to himself, "What beauty!What life! The dream of what a soul! −−and fresh with the sweet sleep of a thousand years. How can anyonegive all this for money, dead and dreamless?"<br /><br />*<br />OTHER SEAS<br />A fish said to another fish, "Above this sea of ours there is another sea, with creatures swimming in it −−andthey live there even as we live here."The fish replied, "Pure fancy! Pure fancy! When you know that everything that leaves our sea by even aninch, and stays out of it, dies. What proof have you of other lives in other seas?"<br /><br />*<br />REPENTANCE<br />On a moonless night a man entered into his neighbour's garden and stole the largest melon he could find andbrought it home.He opened it and found it still unripe.Then behold a marvel!The man's conscience woke and smote him with remorse; and he repented having stolen the melon.<br /><br />*<br />THE DYING MAN AND THE VULTURE<br />Wait, wait yet awhile, my eager friend.I shall yield but too soon this wasted thing,Whose agony overwrought and uselessExhausts your patience.I would not have your honest hungerWait upon these moments:But this chain, though made of breath,Is hard to break.And the will to die,Stronger than all things strong,Is stayed by a will to liveFeebler than all things feeble.Forgive me, comrade; I tarry too long.It is memory that holds my spirit;A procession of distant days,A vision of youth spent in a dream,A face that bids my eyelids not to sleep,A voice that lingers in my ears,A hand that touches my hand.Forgive me that you have waited too long.It is over now, and all is faded:The face, the voice, the hand and the mist that brought them hither.The knot is untied.The cord is cleaved.And that which is neither food nor drink is withdrawn.Approach, my hungry comrade;The board is made ready.And the fare, frugal and spare,Is given with love.Come, and dig your beak here, into the left side,And tear out of its cage this smaller bird,Whose wings can beat no more:I would have it soar with you into the sky.Come now, my friend, I am your host tonight,And you my welcome guest.<br /><br />*<br />BEYOND MY SOLITUDE<br />Beyond my solitude is another solitude, and to him who dwells therein my aloneness is a crowdedmarket−place and my silence a confusion of sounds.Too young am I and too restless to seek that above−solitude. The voices of yonder valley still hold my earsand its shadows bar my way and I cannot go.Beyond these hills is a grove of enchantment and to him who dwells therein my peace is but a whirlwind andmy enchantment an illusion.Too young am I and too riotous to seek that sacred grove. The taste of blood is clinging in my mouth, and thebow and the arrows of my fathers yet linger in my hand and I cannot go.Beyond this burdened self lives my freer self; and to him my dreams are a battle fought in twilight and mydesires the rattling of bones.Too young am I and too outraged to be my freer self.And how shall I become my freer self unless I slay my burdened selves, or unless all men become free?How shall the eagle in me soar against the sun until my fledglings leave the nest which I with my own beakhave built for them?<br /><br />*<br />THE LAST WATCH<br />At high tide of night, when the first breath of dawn came upon the wind, the forerunner, he who calls himselfecho to a voice yet unheard, left his bed−chamber and ascended to the roof of his house. Long he stood andlooked down upon the slumbering city. Then he raised his head, and even as if the sleepless spirits of all thoseasleep had gathered around him, he opened his lips and spoke, and he said:"My friends and neighbours and you who daily pass my gate, I would speak to you in your sleep, and in thevalley of your dreams I would walk naked and unrestrained; for heedless are your waking hours and deaf areyour sound−burdened ears."Long did I love you and overmuch."I love the one among you as though he were all, and all as if you were one. And in the spring of my heart Isang in your gardens, and in the summer of my heart I watched at your threshing−floors."Yea, I loved you all, the giant and the pygmy, the leper and the anointed, and him who gropes in the darkeven as him who dances his days upon the mountains."You, the strong, have I loved, though the marks of your iron hoofs are yet upon my flesh; and you the weak,though you have drained my faith and wasted my patience."You the rich have I loved, while bitter was your honey to my mouth; and you the poor, though you knew myempty−handed shame."You the poet with the bowed lute and blind fingers, you have I loved in self−indulgence; and you the scholarever gathering rotted shrouds in potters' fields."You the priest I have loved, who sit in the silences of yesterday questioning the fate of my tomorrow; andyou the worshippers of gods the images of your own desires."You the thirsting woman whose cup is ever full, I have loved in understanding; and you the woman ofrestless nights, you too I have loved in pity."You the talkative have I loved, saying, 'Life hath much to say'; and you the dumb have I loved, whispering tomyself, 'Says he not in silence that which I fain would hear in words?""And you the judge and the critic, I have loved also; yet when you have seen me crucified, you said, 'Hebleeds rhythmically, and the pattern his blood makes upon his white skin is beautiful to behold.'"Yea, I have loved you all, the young and the old, the trembling reed and the oak."But, alas, it was the over−abundance of my heart that turned you from me. You would drink love from a cup,but not from a surging river. You would hear love's faint murmur, but when love shouts you would muffleyour ears."And because I have loved you all you have said, 'Too soft and yielding is his heart, and too undiscerning ishis path. It is the love of a needy one, who picks crumbs even as he sits at kingly feasts. And it is the love of aweakling, for the strong loves only the strong.""And because I have loved you overmuch you have said, 'It is but the love of a blind man who knows not thebeauty of one nor the ugliness of another. And it is the love of the tasteless who drinks vinegar even as wine.And it is the love of the impertinent and the overweening, for what stranger could be our mother and fatherand sister and brother?'This you have said, and more. For often in the market−place you pointed your fingers at me and saidmockingly, 'There goes the ageless one, the man without seasons, who at the noon hour plays games with ourchildren and at eventide sits with our elders and assumes wisdom and understanding.'"And I said, 'I will love them more. Aye, even more. I will hide my love with seeming to hate, and disguisemy tenderness as bitterness. I will wear an iron mask, and only when armed and mailed shall I seek them.'"Then I laid a heavy hand upon your bruises, and like a tempest in the night I thundered in your ears."From the housetop I proclaimed you hypocrites, Pharisees, tricksters, false and empty earth−bubbles."The short−sighted among you I cursed for blind bats, and those too near the earth I likened to soulless moles."The eloquent I pronounced fork−tongued, the silent, stone−lipped, and the simple and artless I called thedead never weary of death."The seekers after world knowledge I condemned as offenders of the holy spirit and those who would naughtbut the spirit I branded as hunters of shadows who cast their nets in flat waters and catch but their ownimages."Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names."It was love lashed by its own self that spoke. It was pride half slain that fluttered in the dust. It was myhunger for your love that raged from the housetop, while my own love, kneeling in silence, prayed yourforgiveness."But behold a miracle!"It was my disguise that opened your eyes, and my seeming to hate that woke your hearts."And now you love me."You love the swords that stroke you and the arrows that crave your breast. For it comforts you to be woundedand only when you drink of your own blood can you be intoxicated."Like moths that seek destruction in the flame you gather daily in my garden; and with faces uplifted and eyesenchanted you watch me tear the fabric of your days. And in whispers you say the one to the other, 'He seeswith the light of God. He speaks like the prophets of old. He unveils our souls and unlocks our hearts, and likethe eagle that knows the way of foxes he knows our ways.'"Aye, in truth, I know your ways, but only as an eagle knows the ways of his fledglings. And I fain woulddisclose my secret. Yet in my need for your nearness I feign remoteness, and in fear of the ebb tide of yourlove I guard the floodgates of my love."After saying these things the forerunner covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. For he knew in hisheart that love humiliated in its nakedness is greater than love that seeks triumph in disguise; and he wasashamed.But suddenly he raised his head, and like one waking from sleep he outstretched his arms and said, "Night isover, and we children of night must die when dawn comes leaping upon the hills; and out of our ashes amightier love shall rise. And it shall laugh in the sun, and it shall be deathless."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3914758196663835322?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-14955739938000572622009-07-17T01:28:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:33:44.285-07:00The Earth Gods<br /><br /><br />When the night of the twelfth aeon fell,<br />And silence, the high tide of night, swallowed the hills,<br />The three earth−born gods, the Master Titans of life,<br />Appeared upon the mountains.<br />Rivers ran about their feet;<br />The mist floated across their breasts,<br />And their heads rose in majesty above the world.<br />Then they spoke, and like distant thunder<br />Their voices rolled over the plains.<br />FIRST GOD<br />The wind blows eastward;<br />I would turn my face to the south,<br />For the wind crowds my nostrils with the odours of dead things.<br />SECOND GOD<br />It is the scent of burnt flesh, sweet and bountiful.<br />I would breathe it.<br />FIRST GOD<br />It is the odour of mortality parching upon its own faint flame.<br />Heavily does it hang upon the air,<br />And like foul breath of the pit<br />It offends my senses.<br />I would turn my face to the scentless north.<br /><br />SECOND GOD<br />It is the inflamed fragrance of brooding life<br />This I would breathe now and forever.<br />Gods live upon sacrifice,<br />Their thirst quenched by blood,<br />Their hearts appeased with young souls,<br />Their sinews strengthened by the deathless sighs<br />Of those who dwell with death;<br />Their thrones are built upon the ashes of generations.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Weary is my spirit of all there is.<br />I would not move a hand to create a world<br />Nor to erase one.<br />I would not live could I but die,<br />For the weight of aeons is upon me,<br />And the ceaseless moan of the seas exhausts my sleep.<br />Could I but lose the primal aim<br />And vanish like a wasted sun;<br />Could I but strip my divinity of its purpose<br />And breathe my immortality into space,<br />And be no more;<br />Could I but be consumed and pass from time's memory<br />Into the emptiness of nowhere!<br />THIRD GOD<br />Listen my brothers, my ancient brothers.<br />A youth in yonder vale<br />Is singing his heart to the night.<br />His lyre is gold and ebony.<br />His voice is silver and gold.<br />SECOND GOD<br />I would not be so vain as to be no more.<br />I could not but choose the hardest way;<br />To follow the seasons and support the majesty of the years;<br />To sow the seed and to watch it thrust through the soil;<br />To call the flower from its hiding place<br />And give it strength to nestle its own life,<br />And then to pluck it when the storm laughs in the forest;<br />To raise man from secret darkness,<br />Yet keep his roots clinging to the earth;<br />To give him thirst for life, and make death his cupbearer;<br />To endow him with love that waxeth with pain,<br /><br />And exalts with desire, and increases with longing,<br />And fadeth away with the first embrace;<br />To girdle his nights with dreams of higher days,<br />And infuse his days with visions of blissful nights,<br />And yet to confine his days and his nights<br />To their immutable resemblance;<br />To make his fancy like the eagle of the mountain,<br />And his thought as the tempests of the seas,<br />And yet to give him hands slow in decision,<br />And feet heavy with deliberation;<br />To give him gladness that he may sing before us,<br />And sorrow that he may call unto us,<br />And then to lay him low,<br />When the earth in her hunger cries for food;<br />To raise his soul high above the firmament<br />That he may foretaste our tomorrow,<br />And to keep his body grovelling in the mire<br />That he may not forget his yesterday.<br />Thus shall we rule man unto the end of time,<br />Governing the breath that began with his mother's crying,<br />And ends with the lamentation of his children.<br />FIRST GOD<br />My heart thirsts, yet I would not drink the faint blood of a feeble<br />race,<br />For the cup is tainted, and the vintage therein is bitter to my mouth.<br />Like thee I have kneaded the clay and fashioned it to breathing forms<br />That crept out of my dripping fingers unto the marshes and the hills.<br />Like thee I have kindled the dark depths of beginning life<br />And watched it crawl from caves to rocky heights.<br />Like thee I have summoned spring and laid the beauty thereof<br />For a lure that seizes youth and binds it to generate and multiply.<br />Like thee I have led man from shrine to shrine,<br />And turned his mute fear of things unseen<br />To tremulous faith in us, the unvisited and the unknown.<br />Like thee I have ridden the wild tempest over his head<br />That he might bow before us,<br />And shaken the earth beneath him until he cried unto us;<br />And like thee, led the savage ocean against his nestled isle,<br />Till he hath died calling upon us.<br />All this have I done, and more.<br />And all that I have done is empty and vain.<br />Vain is the waking and empty is the sleep,<br />And thrice empty and vain is the dream.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brothers, my august brothers,<br /><br />Down in the myrtle grove<br />A girl is dancing to the moon,<br />A thousand dew−stars are in her hair,<br />About her feet a thousand wings.<br />SECOND GOD<br />We have planted man, our vine, and tilled the soil<br />In the purple mist of the first dawn.<br />We watched the lean branches grow,<br />And through the days of seasonless years<br />We nursed the infant leaves.<br />From the angry element we shielded the bud,<br />And against all dark spirits we guarded the flower.<br />And now that our vine hath yielded the grape<br />You will not take it to the winepress and fill the cup.<br />Whose mightier hand than yours shall reap the fruit?<br />And what nobler end than your thirst awaits the wine?<br />Man is food for the gods,<br />And the glory of man begins<br />When his aimless breath is sucked by gods' hallowed lips.<br />All that is human counts for naught if human it remain;<br />The innocence of childhood, and the sweet ecstasy of youth,<br />The passion of stern manhood, and the wisdom of old age;<br />The splendour of kings and the triumph of warriors,<br />The fame of poets and the honour of dreamers and saints;<br />All these and all that lieth therein is bred for gods.<br />And naught but bread ungraced shall it be<br />If the gods raise it not to their mouths.<br />And as the mute grain turns to love songs when swallowed by the<br />nightingale,<br />Even so as bread of gods shall man taste godhead.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Aye, man is meat for gods!<br />And all that is man shall come upon the gods' eternal board!<br />The pain of child−bearing and the agony of childbirth,<br />The blind cry of the infant that pierces the naked night,<br />And the anguish of the mother wrestling with the sleep she craves,<br />To pour life exhausted from her breast;<br />The flaming breath of youth tormented,<br />And the burdened sobs of passion unspent;<br />The dripping brows of manhood tilling the barren land,<br />And the regret of pale old age when life against life's will<br />Calls to the grave.<br />Behold this is man!<br />A creature bred on hunger and made food for hungry gods.<br />A vine that creeps in dust beneath the feet of deathless death.<br /><br />The flower that blooms in nights of evil shadows;<br />The grape of mournful days, and days of terror and shame.<br />And yet you would have me eat and drink.<br />You would bid me sit amongst shrouded faces<br />And draw my life from stony lips<br />And from withered hands receive my eternity.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brothers, my dreaded brothers,<br />Thrice deep the youth is singing,<br />And thrice higher is his song.<br />His voice shakes the forest<br />And pierces the sky,<br />And scatters the slumbering of earth.<br />SECOND GOD<br />(Always unhearing)<br />The bee hums harshly in your ears,<br />And foul is the honey to your lips.<br />Fain would I comfort you,<br />But how shall I?<br />Only the abyss listens when gods call unto gods,<br />For measureless is the gulf that lies between divinities,<br />And windless is the space.<br />Yet I would comfort you,<br />I would make serene your clouded sphere;<br />And though equal we are in power and judgement,<br />I would counsel you.<br />When out of chaos came the earth, and we, sons of the beginning,<br />beheld each other in the lustless light, we breathed the first hushed,<br />tremulous sound that quickened the currents of air and sea.<br />Then we walked, hand in hand, upon the grey infant world, and out of<br />the echoes of our first drowsy steps time was born, a fourth divinity,<br />that sets his feet upon our footprints, shadowing our thoughts and<br />desires, and seeing only with our eyes.<br />And unto earth came life, and unto life came the spirit, the winged<br />melody of the universe. And we ruled life and spirit, and none save us<br />knew the measure of the years nor the weight of years' nebulous<br />dreams, till we, at noontide of the seventh aeon, gave the sea in<br />marriage to the sun.<br />And from the inner chamber of their nuptial ecstasy, we brought man, a<br />creature who, though yielding and infirm, bears ever the marks of his<br />parentage.<br />Through man who walks earth with eyes upon the stars, we find pathways<br />to earth's distant regions; and of man, the humble reed growing beside<br />dark waters, we make a flute through whose hollowed heart we pour our<br />voice to the silence−bound world. From the sunless north to the<br /><br />sun−smitten sand of the south.<br />From the lotus land where days are born<br />To perilous isles where days are slain,<br />Man the faint hearted, overbold by our purpose,<br />Ventures with lyre and sword.<br />Ours is the will he heralds,<br />And ours the sovereignty he proclaims,<br />And his love trodden courses are rivers, to the sea of our desires.<br />We, upon the heights, in man's sleep dream our dreams.<br />We urge his days to part from the valley of twilights<br />And seek their fullness upon the hills.<br />Our hands direct the tempests that sweep the world<br />And summon man from sterile peace to fertile strife,<br />And on to triumph.<br />In our eyes is the vision that turns man's soul to flame,<br />And leads him to exalted loneliness and rebellious prophecy,<br />And on to crucifixion.<br />Man is born to bondage,<br />And in bondage is his honour and his reward.<br />In man we seek a mouthpiece,<br />And in his life our self fulfilment.<br />Whose heart shall echo our voice if the human heart is deafened with<br />dust?<br />Who shall behold our shining if man's eye is blinded with night?<br />And what would you do with man, child of our earliest heart, our own<br />self image?<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brothers, my mighty brothers,<br />The dancer's feet are drunk with songs.<br />They set the air a−throbbing,<br />And like doves her hands fly upward.<br />FIRST GOD<br />The lark calls to the lark,<br />But upward the eagle soars,<br />Nor tarries to hear the song.<br />You would teach me self love fulfilled in man's worship,<br />And content with man's servitude.<br />But my self love is limitless and without measure.<br />I would rise beyond my earthbound mortality<br />And throne me upon the heavens.<br />My arms wood girdle space and encompass the spheres.<br />I would take the starry way for a bow,<br />And the comets for arrows,<br />And with the infinite would I conquer the infinite.<br />But you would not do this, were it in your power.<br /><br />For ever as man is to man,<br />So are gods to gods.<br />Nay, you would bring to my weary heart<br />Remembrance of cycles spent in mist,<br />When my soul sought itself among the mountains<br />And mine eyes pursued their own image in slumbering waters;<br />Though my yesterday died in child−birth<br />And only silence visits her womb,<br />And the wind strewn sand nestles at her breast.<br />Oh yesterday, dead yesterday,<br />Mother of my chained divinity,<br />What super−god caught you in your flight<br />And made you breed in the cage?<br />What giant sun warmed your bosom<br />To give me birth?<br />I bless you not, yet I would not curse you;<br />For even as you have burdened me with life<br />So I have burdened man<br />But less cruel have I been.<br />I, immortal, made man a passing shadow;<br />And you, dying, conceived me deathless.<br />Yesterday, dead yesterday,<br />Shall you return with distant tomorrow,<br />That I may bring you to judgment?<br />And will you wake with life's second dawn<br />That I may erase your earth−clinging memory from the earth?<br />Would that you might rise with all the dead of yore,<br />Till the land choke with its own bitter fruit,<br />And all the seas be stagnant with the slain,<br />And woe upon woe exhaust earth's vain fertility.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brother, my sacred brothers,<br />The girl has heard the song.<br />And now she seeks the singer.<br />Like a fawn in glad surprise<br />She leaps over rocks and streams<br />And turns her to every side.<br />Oh, the joy in mortal intent,<br />The eye of purpose half−born;<br />The smile on lips that quiver<br />With foretaste of promised delight!<br />What flower has fallen from heaven,<br />What flame has risen from hell.<br />That startled the heart of silence<br />To this breathless joy and fear?<br />What dream dreamt we upon the height,<br />What thought gave we to the wind<br />That woke the drowsing valley<br /><br />And made watchful the night?<br />SECOND GOD<br />The sacred loom is given you,<br />And the art to weave the fabric.<br />The loom and the art shall be yours for evermore,<br />And yours the dark thread and the light,<br />And yours the purple and the gold.<br />Yet you would grudge yourself a raiment.<br />Your hands have spun man's soul<br />From living air and fire,<br />Yet now you would break the thread,<br />And lend your versed fingers to an idle eternity.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Nay, unto eternity unmoulded I would give my hands,<br />And to untrodden fields assign my feet.<br />What joy is there in songs oft heard,<br />Whose tune the remembering ear arrests<br />Ere the breath yields it to the wind?<br />My heart longs for what my heart conceives not,<br />And unto the unknown where memory dwells not<br />I would command my spirit.<br />Oh, tempt me not with glory possessed,<br />And seek not to comfort me with your dream or mine,<br />For all that I am, and all that there is on earth,<br />And all that shall be, inviteth not my soul.<br />Oh my soul,<br />Silent is thy face,<br />And in Thine eyes the shadows of night are sleeping.<br />But terrible is thy silence,<br />And thou art terrible.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brothers, my solemn brothers,<br />The girl has found the singer.<br />She sees his raptured face.<br />Panther−like she slips with subtle steps<br />Through rustling vine and fern.<br />And now amid his ardent cries<br />He gazes full on her.<br />Oh my brothers, my heedless brothers,<br />Is it some other god in passion<br />Who has woven this web of scarlet and white?<br />What unbridled star has gone astray?<br /><br />Whose secret keepeth night from morning?<br />And whose hand is upon our world?<br />FIRST GOD<br />Oh my soul, my soul,<br />Thou burning sphere that girdles me,<br />How shall I guide thy course.<br />And unto what space direct thy eagerness?<br />Oh my mateless soul,<br />In thy hunger thou preyest upon thyself,<br />And with thine own tears thou wouldst quench thy thirst;<br />For night gathers not her dew into thy cup,<br />And the day brings thee no fruit.<br />Oh my soul, my soul,<br />Thou grounded ship laden with desire,<br />Whence shall come the wind to fill thy sail,<br />And what higher tide shall release thy rudder?<br />Weighed is thine anchor and thy wings would spread,<br />But the skies are silent above thee,<br />And the still sea mocks at thy immobility.<br />And what hope is there for thee and me?<br />What shifting of worlds, what new purpose in the heavens,<br />That shall claim thee?<br />Does the womb of the virgin infinite<br />Bear the seed of thy Redeemer,<br />One mightier than thy vision<br />Whose hand shall deliver thee from thy captivity?<br />SECOND GOD<br />Hold your importunate cry,<br />And the breath of your burning heart,<br />For deaf is the ear of the infinite,<br />And heedless is the sky.<br />We are the beyond and we are the Most High,<br />And between us and boundless eternity<br />Is naught save our unshaped passion<br />And the motive thereof.<br />You invoke the unknown,<br />And the unknown clad with moving mist<br />Dwells in your own soul.<br />Yea, in your own soul your Redeemer lies asleep,<br />And in sleep sees what your waking eye does not see.<br />And that is the secret of our being.<br />Would you leave the harvest ungathered,<br />In haste to sow again the dreaming furrow?<br />And wherefore spread you your cloud in trackless fields and desolate,<br />When your own flock is seeking you,<br /><br />And would fain gather in your own shadow?<br />Forbear and look down upon the world.<br />Behold the unweaned children of your love.<br />The earth is your abode, and the earth is your throne;<br />And high beyond man's furtherest hope<br />Your hand upholds his destiny.<br />You would not abandon him<br />Who strives to reach you through gladness and through pain.<br />You would not turn away your face from the need in his eyes.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Does dawn hold the heart of night unto her heart?<br />Or shall the sea heed the bodies of her dead?<br />Like dawn my soul rises within me<br />Naked and unencumbered.<br />And like the unresting sea<br />My heart casts out a perishing wrack of man and earth.<br />I would not cling to that clings to me.<br />But unto that that rises beyond my reach I would arise.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Brothers, behold, my brothers,<br />They meet, two star−bound spirits in the sky encountering.<br />In silence they gaze the one upon the other.<br />He sings no more,<br />And yet his sunburnt throat throbs with the song;<br />And in her limbs the happy dance is stayed<br />But not asleep.<br />Brothers, my strange brothers,<br />The night waxeth deep,<br />And brighter is the moon,<br />And twixt the meadow and the sea<br />A voice in rapture calleth you and me.<br />SECOND GOD<br />To be, to rise, to burn before the burning sun,<br />To live, and to watch the nights of the living<br />As Orion watches us!<br />To face the four winds with a head crowned and high,<br />And to heal the ills of man with our tideless breath!<br />The tentmaker sits darkly at his loom,<br />And the potter turns his wheel unaware;<br />But we, the sleepless and the knowing,<br />We are released from guessing and from chance.<br />We pause not nor do we wait for thought.<br /><br />We are beyond all restless questioning.<br />Be content and let the dreaming go.<br />Like rivers let us flow to ocean<br />Unwounded by the edges of the rocks;<br />And when we reach her heart and are merged,<br />No more shall we wrangle and reason of tomorrow.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Oh, this ache of ceaseless divining,<br />This vigil of guiding the day unto twilight,<br />And the night unto dawn;<br />This tide of ever remembering and forgetting;<br />This ever sowing destinies and reaping but hopes;<br />This changeless lifting of self from dust to mist,<br />Only to long for dust, and to fall down with longing unto dust,<br />And still with greater longing to seek the mist again.<br />And this timeless measuring of time.<br />Must my soul needs to be a sea whose currents forever confound one<br />another,<br />Or the sky where the warring winds turn hurricane?<br />Were I man, a blind fragment,<br />I could have met it with patience.<br />Or if I were the Supreme Godhead,<br />Who fills the emptiness of man and of gods,<br />I would be fulfilled.<br />But you and I are neither human,<br />Nor the Supreme above us.<br />We are but twilights ever rising and ever fading<br />Between horizon and horizon.<br />We are but gods holding a world and held by it,<br />Fates that sound the trumpets<br />Whilst the breath and the music come from beyond.<br />And I rebel.<br />I would exhaust myself to emptiness.<br />I would dissolve myself afar from your vision,<br />And from the memory of this silent youth, our younger brother,<br />Who sits beside us gazing into yonder valley,<br />And though his lips move, utters not a word.<br />THIRD GOD<br />I speak, my unheeding brothers,<br />I do indeed speak,<br />But you hear only your own words.<br />I bid you see your glory and mine,<br />But you turn, and close your eyes,<br />And rock your thrones.<br />Ye sovereigns who would govern the above world and the world beneath,<br /><br />God self−bent, whose yesterday is ever jealous of your tomorrow,<br />Self−weary, who would unleash your temper with speech<br />And lash our orb with thunderings!<br />Your feud is but the sounding of an Ancient Lyre<br />Whose strings have been half forgotten by His fingers<br />Who has Orion for a harp and the Pleiades for cymbals.<br />Even now, while you are muttering and rumbling,<br />His harp rings, His cymbals clash,<br />And I beseech you hear his song.<br />Behold, man and woman,<br />Flame to flame,<br />In white ecstasy.<br />Roots that suck at the breast of purple earth,<br />Flame flowers at the breasts of the sky.<br />And we are the purple breast,<br />And we are the enduring sky.<br />Our soul, even the soul of life, your soul and mine,<br />Dwells this night in a throat enflamed,<br />And garments the body of a girl with beating waves.<br />Your sceptre cannot sway this destiny,<br />Your weariness is but ambition.<br />This and all is wiped away<br />In the passion of a man and a maid.<br />SECOND GOD<br />Yea, what of this love of man and woman?<br />See how the east wind dances with her dancing feet,<br />And the west wind rises singing with his song.<br />Behold our sacred purpose now enthroned,<br />In the yielding of a spirit that sings to a body that dances.<br />FIRST GOD<br />I will not turn my eyes downward to the conceit of earth,<br />Nor to her children in their slow agony that you call love.<br />And what is love,<br />But the muffled drum and leads the long procession of sweet<br />uncertainty<br />To another slow agony?<br />I will not look downward.<br />What is there to behold<br />Save a man and a woman in the forest that grew to trap them<br />That they might renounce self<br />And parent creatures for our unborn tomorrow?<br />THIRD GOD<br /><br />Oh, the affliction of knowing,<br />The starless veil of prying and questioning<br />Which we have laid upon the world;<br />And the challenge to human forbearance!<br />We would lay under a stone a waxen shape<br />And say, It is a thing of clay,<br />And in clay let it find its end.<br />We would hold in our hands a white flame<br />And say in our heart,<br />It is a fragment of ourselves returning,<br />A breath of our breath that had escaped,<br />And now haunts our hands and lips for more fragrance.<br />Earth gods, my brothers,<br />High upon the mountain,<br />We are still earth−bound,<br />Through man desiring the golden hours of man's destiny.<br />Shall our wisdom ravish beauty from his eyes?<br />Shall our measures subdue his passion to stillness,<br />Or to our own passion?<br />What would your armies of reasoning<br />Where love encamps his host?<br />They who are conquered by love,<br />And upon whose bodies love's chariot ran<br />From sea to mountain<br />And again form mountain to the sea,<br />Stand even now in a shy half−embrace.<br />Petal unto petal they breathe the sacred perfume,<br />Soul to soul they find the soul of life,<br />And upon their eyelids lies a prayer<br />Unto you and unto me.<br />Love is a night bent down to a bower anointed,<br />A sky turned meadow, and all the stars to fireflies.<br />True it is, we are the beyond,<br />And we are the most high.<br />But love is beyond our questioning,<br />And love outsoars our song.<br />SECOND GOD<br />Seek you a distant orb,<br />And would not consider this star<br />Where your sinews are planted?<br />There is no centre in space<br />Save where self is wedded to self,<br />And beauty filling our hands to shame our lips.<br />The most distant is the most near.<br />And where beauty is, there are all things.<br />Oh, lofty dreaming brother,<br />Return to us from time's dim borderland!<br />Unlace your feet from no−where and no−when,<br /><br />And dwell with us in this security<br />Which your hand intertwined with ours<br />Has builded stone upon stone.<br />Cast off your mantle of brooding,<br />And comrade us, masters of the young earth green and warm.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Eternal Altar! Wouldst thou indeed this night<br />A god for sacrifice?<br />Now then, I come, and coming I offer up<br />My passion and my pain.<br />Lo, there is the dancer, carved out of our ancient eagerness,<br />And the singer is crying mine own songs unto the wind.<br />And in that dancing and in that singing<br />A god is slain within me.<br />My god−heart within my human ribs<br />Shouts to my god−heart in mid−air.<br />The human pit that wearied me calls to divinity.<br />The beauty that we have sought from the beginning<br />Calls unto divinity.<br />I heed, and I have measured the call,<br />And now I yield.<br />Beauty is a path that leads to self self−slain.<br />Beat your strings<br />I will to walk the path.<br />It stretches ever to another dawn.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Love triumphs.<br />The white and green of love beside a lake,<br />And the proud majesty of love in tower or balcony;<br />Love in a garden or in the desert untrodden,<br />Love is our lord and master.<br />It is not a wanton decay of the flesh,<br />Nor the crumbling of desire<br />When desire and self are wrestling;<br />Nor is it flesh that takes arms against the spirit.<br />Love rebels not.<br />It only leaves the trodden way of ancient destinies for the sacred<br />grove,<br />To sing and dance its secret to eternity.<br />Love is youth with chains broken,<br />Manhood made free from the sod,<br />And womanhood warmed by the flame<br />And shining with the light of heaven deeper than our heaven.<br />Love is a distant laughter in the spirit.<br />It is a wild assault that hushes you to your awakening.<br /><br />It is a new dawn unto the earth,<br />A day not yet achieved in your eyes or mine,<br />But already achieved in its own greater heart.<br />Brothers, my brothers,<br />The bride comes from the heart of dawn,<br />And the bridegroom from the sunset.<br />There is a wedding in the valley.<br />A day too vast for recording.<br />SECOND GOD<br />Thus has it been since the first morn<br />Discharged the plains to hill and vale,<br />And thus shall it be to the last even−tide.<br />Our roots have brought forth the dancing branches in the valley,<br />And we are the flowering of the song−scent that rises to the heights.<br />Immortal and mortal, twin rivers calling to the sea.<br />There is no emptiness between call and call,<br />But only in the ear.<br />Time maketh our listening more certain,<br />And giveth it more desire.<br />Only doubt in mortal hushes the sound.<br />We have outsoared the doubt.<br />Man is a child of our younger heart.<br />Man is god in slow arising;<br />And betwixt his joy and his pain<br />Lies our sleeping, and the dreaming thereof.<br />FIRST GOD<br />Let the singer cry, and let the dancer whirl her feet<br />And let me be content awhile.<br />Let my soul be serene this night.<br />Perchance I may drowse, and drowsing<br />Behold a brighter world<br />And creatures more starry supple to my mind.<br />THIRD GOD<br />Now I will rise and strip me of time and space,<br />And I will dance in that field untrodden,<br />And the dancer's feet will move with my feet;<br />And I will sing in that higher air,<br />And a human voice will throb within my voice.<br />We shall pass into the twilight;<br />Perchance to wake to the dawn of another world.<br />But love shall stay,<br />And his finger−marks shall not be erased.<br /><br />The blessed forge burns,<br />The sparks rise, and each spark is a sun.<br />Better it is for us, and wiser,<br />To seek a shadowed nook and sleep in our earth divinity,<br />And let love, human and frail, command the coming day.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-1495573993800057262?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-39940104143878277002009-07-17T01:09:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:13:59.353-07:00Five years of Selma's marriage passed without bringing children to strengthen the ties of spiritual relation<br />between her and her husband and bind their repugnant souls together.<br />A barren woman is looked upon with disdain everywhere because of most men's desire to perpetuate<br />themselves through posterity.<br />The substantial man considers his childless wife as an enemy; he detests her and deserts her and wishes her<br />death. Mansour Bey Galib was that kind of man; materially, he was like earth, and hard like steel and greedy<br />like a grave. His desire of having a child to carry on his name and reputation made him hate Selma in spite of<br />her beauty and sweetness.<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 />The nightingale does not make his nest in a cage lest slavery be the lot of its chicks.... Selma was a prisoner of<br />misery and it was Heaven's will that she would not have another prisoner to share her life. The flowers of the<br />field are the children of sun's affection and nature's love; and the children of men are the flowers of love and<br />compassion.....<br />The spirit of love and compassion never dominated Selma's beautiful home at Ras Beyrouth; nevertheless, she<br />knelt down on her knees every night before Heaven and asked God for a child in whom she would find<br />comfort and consolation... She prayed successively until Heaven answered her prayers....<br />The tree of the cave blossomed to bear fruit at last. The nightingale in the cage commenced making its nest<br />with the feathers of its wings.<br />Selma stretched her chained arms toward Heaven to receive God's precious gift and nothing in the world<br /><br />could have made her happier than becoming a potential mother.<br />She waited anxiously, counting the days and looking forward to the time when Heaven's sweetest melody, the<br />voice of her child, should ring in her ears....<br />She commenced to see the dawn of a brighter future through her tears.<br />It was the month of Nisan when Selma was stretched on the bed of pain and labour, where life and death were<br />wrestling. The doctor and the midwife were ready to deliver to the world a new guest. Late at night Selma<br />started her successive cry... a cry of life's partition from life... a cry of continuance in the firmament of<br />nothingness.. a cry of a weak force before the stillness of great forces... the cry of poor Selma who was lying<br />down in despair under the feet of life and death.<br />At dawn Selma gave birth to a baby boy. When she opened her eyes she saw smiling faces all over the room,<br />then she looked again and saw life and death still wrestling by her bed. She closed her eyes and cried, saying<br />for the first time, "Oh, my son." The midwife wrapped the infant with silk swaddles and placed him by his<br />mother, but the doctor kept looking at Selma and sorrowfully shaking his head.<br />The voices of joy woke the neighbours, who rushed into the house to felicitate the father upon the birth of his<br />heir, but the doctor still gazed at Selma and her infant and shook his head....<br />The servants hurried to spread the good news to Mansour Bey, but the doctor stared at Selma and her child<br />with a disappointed look on his face.<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<br />mother; then he quivered and close them for the last time. The doctor took the child from Selma's arms and on<br />his cheeks fell tears; then he whispered to himself, "He is a departing guest."<br />The child passed away while the neighbours were celebrating with the father in the big hall at the house and<br />drinking to the health of their heir; and Selma looked at the doctor, and pleaded, "Give me my child and let<br />me embrace him."<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<br />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<br />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<br />smiled happily. Her face brightened as if she had discovered something, and quietly she said, "Give me my<br />child; bring him close to me and let me see him dead."<br />The doctor carried the dead child to Selma and placed him between her arms. She embraced him, then turned<br />her face toward the wall and addressed the dead infant saying, "You have come to take me away my child;<br />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<br />dark cave.<br />And in a minute the sun's ray penetrated the window curtains and fell upon two calm bodies lying on a bed,<br />guarded by the profound dignity of silence and shaded by the wings of death. The doctor left the room with<br />tears in his eyes, and as he reached the big hall the celebrations was converted into a funeral, but Mansour Bey<br />Galib never uttered a word or shed a tear. He remained standing motionless like a statue, holding a drinking<br />cup with his right hand.<br />* * * * * * * * * *<br />The second day Selma was shrouded with her white wedding dress and laid in a coffin; the child's shroud was<br />his swaddle; his coffin was his mother's arms; his grave was her calm breast. Two corpses were carried in one<br />coffin, and I walked reverently with the crowd accompanying Selma and her infant to their resting place.<br />Arriving at the cemetery, Bishop Galib commenced chanting while the other priests prayed, and on their<br />gloomy faces appeared a veil of ignorance and emptiness.<br />As the coffin went down, one of the bystanders whispered, "This is the first time in my life I have seen two<br />corpses in one coffin." Another one said, "It seems as if the child had come to rescue his mother from her<br />pitiless husband."<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<br />look like he has lost his wife and child in one day." A fourth one added, "His uncle, the Bishop, will marry<br />him again tomorrow to a wealthier and stronger woman.<br />The Bishop and the priests kept on singing and chanting until the grave digger was through filing the ditch.<br />Then, the people, individually, approached the Bishop and his nephew and offered their respects to them with<br />sweet words of sympathy, but I stood lonely aside without a soul to console me, as if Selma and her child<br />meant nothing to me.<br />The farewell−bidders left the cemetery; the grave digger stood by the new grave holding a shovel with his<br />hand.<br />As I approached him, I inquired, "Do you remember where Farris Effandi Karamy was buried?"<br />He looked at me for a moment, then pointed at Selma's grave and said, "Right here; I placed his daughter upon<br />him and upon his daughter's breast rests her child, and upon all I put the earth back with this shovel."<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<br />Selma's grave and wept.<br /><br />***************<br />The Broken Wings<br /><br />Kahlil Gibran<br /><br />FOREWORD<br />SILENT SORROW<br />THE HAND OF DESTINY<br />ENTRANCE TO THE SHRINE<br />THE WHITE TORCH<br />THE TEMPEST<br />THE LAKE OF FIRE<br />BEFORE THE THRONE OF DEATH<br />BETWEEN CHRIST AND ISHTAR<br />THE SACRIFICE<br />THE RESCUER<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3994010414387827700?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-65748545980445242542009-07-17T01:07:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:09:02.981-07:00One day in the late part of June, as the people left the city for the mountain to avoid the heat of summer, I<br />went as usual to the temple to meet Selma, carrying with me a little book of Andalusian poems. As I reached<br />the temple I sat there waiting for Selma, glancing at intervals at the pages of my book, reciting those verses<br />which filled my heart with ecstasy and brought to my soul the memory of the kings, poets, and knights who<br />bade farewell to Granada, and left, with tears in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts, their palaces, institutions<br />and hopes behind. In an hour I saw Selma walking in the midst of the gardens and I approaching the temple,<br />leaning on her parasol as if she were carrying all the worries of the world upon her shoulders. As she entered<br />the temple and sat by me, I noticed some sort of change in her eyes and I was anxious to inquire about it.<br />Selma felt what was going on in my mind, and she put her hand on my head and said, "Come close to me,<br />come my beloved, come and let me quench my thirst, for the hour of separation has come."<br />I asked her, "Did your husband find out about our meeting her?" She responded, "My husband does not care<br />about me, neither does he know how I spend my time, for he is busy with those poor girls whom poverty has<br />driven into the houses of ill fame; those girls who sell their bodies for bread, kneaded with blood and tears."<br />I inquired, "What prevents you from coming to this temple and sitting by me reverently before God? Is your<br />soul requesting our separation.?"<br />She answered with tears in her eyes, "No, my beloved, my spirit did not ask for separation, for you are a part<br />of me. My eyes never get tired of looking at you, for you are their light; but if destiny ruled that I should walk<br />the rough path of life loaded with shackles, would I be satisfied if your fate should be like mine?" Then she<br />added, "I cannot say everything, because the tongue is mute with pain and cannot talk; the lips are sealed with<br />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."<br /><br />When I asked, "What do you mean, Selma, and of whom are you afraid?" She covered her face with her hands<br />and said, "The Bishop has already found out that once a month I have been leaving the grave which he buried<br />me in."<br />I inquired, "Did the Bishop find out about our meetings here?" She answered, "If he did, you would not see<br />me here sitting by you, but he is getting suspicious and he informed all his servants and guards to watch me<br />closely. I am feeling that the house I live in and the path I walk on are all eyes watching me, and fingers<br />pointing at me, and ears listening to the whisper of my thoughts."<br />She was silent for a while, and then she added, with tears pouring down her cheeks, "I am not afraid of the<br />Bishop, for wetness does not scare the drowned, but I am afraid you might fall into the trap and become his<br />prey; you are still young and free as the sunlight. I am not frightened of fate which has shot all its arrows in<br />my breast, but I am afraid the serpent might bite your feet and detain you from climbing the mountain peak<br />where the future awaits you with its pleasure and glory."<br />I said, "He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves of darkness will<br />always be deceived by the days and nights. But listen, Selma, listen carefully; is separation the only means of<br />avoiding people's evils and meanness? Has the path of love and freedom been closed and is nothing left<br />except submission to the will of the slaves of death?"<br />She responded, "Nothing is left save separation and bidding each other farewell."<br />With rebellious spirit I took her hand and said excitedly, "We have yielded to the people's will for a long time;<br />since the time we met until this hour we have been led by the blind and have worshipped with them before<br />their idols. Since the time I met you we have been in the hands of the Bishop like two balls which he has<br />thrown around as he pleased. Are we going to submit to his will until death takes us away? Did God give us<br />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<br />extinguishes his spirit's fire with his own hands is an infidel in the eyes of Heaven, for Heaven set the fire that<br />burns in our spirits. He who does not rebel against oppression is doing himself injustice. I love you, Selma,<br />and you love me, too; and Love is a precious treasure, it is God's gift to sensitive and great spirits. Shall we<br />throw this treasure away and let the pigs scatter it and trample on it? This world is full of wonder and beauty.<br />Why are we living in this narrow tunnel which the Bishop and his assistants have dug out for us? Life is full<br />of happiness and freedom; why don't we take this heavy yoke off our shoulders and break the chains tied to<br />our feet, and walk freely toward peace? Get up and let us leave this small temple for God's great temple. Let<br />us leave this country and all its slavery and ignorance for another country far away and unreached by the<br />hands of the thieves. Let us go to the coast under the cover of night and catch a boat that will take us across<br />the oceans, where we can find a new life full of happiness and understanding. Do not hesitate, Selma for these<br />minutes are more precious to us than the crowns of kings and more sublime than the thrones of angels. Let us<br />follow the column of light that leads us from this arid desert into the green fields where flowers and aromatic<br />plants grow."<br />She shook her head and gazed at something invisible on the ceiling of the temple; a sorrowful smile appeared<br />on her lips; then she said, "No, no my beloved. Heaven placed in my hand a cup, full of vinegar and gall; I<br />forced myself to drink it in order to know the full bitterness at the bottom until nothing was left save a few<br />drops, which I shall drink patiently. I am not worthy of a new life of love and peace; I am not strong enough<br />for life's pleasure and sweetness, because a bird with broken wings cannot fly in the spacious sky. The eyes<br />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<br />happiness; its memory makes me suffer. Mention not peace to me; its shadow frightens me; but look at me<br />and I will show you the holy torch which Heaven has lighted in the ashes of my heart −−you know that I love<br />you as a mother loves her only child, and Love only taught me to protect you even from myself. It is Love,<br />purified with fire, that stops me from following you to the farthest land. Love kills my desires so that you may<br /><br />live freely and virtuously. Limited love asks for possession of the beloved, but the unlimited asks only for<br />itself. Love that comes between the naiveté and awakening of youth satisfies itself with possessing, and grows<br />with embraces. But Love which is born in the firmament's lap and has descended with the night's secrets is not<br />contended with anything but Eternity and immortality; it does not stand reverently before anything except<br />deity.<br />When I knew that the Bishop wanted to stop me from leaving his nephew's house and to take my only<br />pleasure away from me, I stood before the window of my room and looked toward the sea, thinking of the vast<br />countries beyond it and the real freedom and personal independence which can be found there. I felt that I was<br />living close to you, surrounded by the shadow of your spirit, submerged in the ocean of your affection. But all<br />these thoughts which illuminate a woman's heart and make her rebel against old customs and live in the<br />shadow of freedom and justice, made me believe that I am weak and that our love is limited and feeble, unable<br />to stand before the sun's face. I cried like a king whose kingdom and treasure have been usurped, but<br />immediately I saw your face through my tears and your eyes gazing at me and I remembered what you said to<br />me once (Come, Selma, come and let us be strong towers before the tempest. Let us stand like brave soldiers<br />before the enemy and face his weapons. If we are killed, we shall die as martyrs; and if we win, we shall live<br />as heroes. Braving obstacles and hardships is nobler than retreat to tranquillity.) These words, my beloved,<br />you uttered when the wings of death were hovering around my father's bed; I remembered them yesterday<br />when the wings of despair were hovering above my head. I strengthened myself and felt, while in the darkness<br />of my prison, some sort of precious freedom easing our difficulties and diminishing our sorrows. I found out<br />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<br />you, and in my weak spirit there is a new strength, and this strength is the ability to sacrifice a great thing in<br />order to obtain a greater one; it is the sacrifice of my happiness so that you may remain virtuous and<br />honourable in the eyes of the people and be far away from their treachery and persecution.<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<br />with a new determination that laughs at the shackles and shortens the way. I used to come to this temple like a<br />scared phantom, but today I came like a brave woman who feels the urgency of sacrifice and knows the value<br />of suffering, a woman who likes to protect the one she loves from the ignorant people and from her hungry<br />spirit. I used to sit by you like a trembling shadow, but today I came here to show you my true self before<br />Ishtar and Christ.<br />I am a tree, grown in the shade, and today I stretched my branches to tremble for a while in the daylight. I<br />came here to tell you good−bye, my beloved, and it is my hope that our farewell will be great and awful like<br />our love. Let our farewell be like fire that bends the gold and makes it more resplendent."<br />Selma did not allow me to speak or protest, but she looked at me, her eyes glittering, her face retaining its<br />dignity, seeming like an angel worthy of silence and respect. Then she flung herself upon me, something<br />which she had never done before, and put her smooth arms around me and printed a long, deep, fiery kiss on<br />my lips.<br />As the sun went down, withdrawing its rays from those gardens and orchards, Selma moved to the middle of<br />the temple and gazed along at its walls and corners as if she wanted to pour the light of her eyes on its pictures<br />and symbols. Then she walked forward and reverently knelt before the picture of Christ and kissed His feet,<br />and she whispered, "Oh, Christ, I have chosen Thy Cross and deserted Ishtar's world of pleasure and<br />happiness; I have worn the wreath of thorns and discarded the wreath of laurel and washed myself with blood<br />and tears instead of perfume and scent; I have drunk vinegar and gall from a cup which was meant for wine<br />and nectar; accept me, my Lord, among Thy followers and lead me toward Galilee with those who have<br />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<br />reside, Do not sympathize with me, my beloved, and do not feel sorry for me, because the soul that sees the<br />shadow of God once will never be frightened, thereafter, of the ghosts of devils. And the eye that looks on<br />heaven once will not be closed by the pains of the world."<br />Uttering these words, Selma left the place of worship; and I remained there lost in a deep sea of thoughts,<br />absorbed in the world of revelation where God sits on the throne and the angels write down the acts of human<br />beings, and the souls recite the tragedy of life, and the brides of Heaven sing the hymns of love, sorrow and<br />immortality.<br />Night had already come when I awakened from my swoon and found myself bewildered in the midst of the<br />gardens, repeating the echo of every word uttered by Selma and remembering her silence, ,her actions, her<br />movements, her expression and the touch of her hands, until I realized the meaning of farewell and the pain of<br />lonesomeness. I was depressed and heart−broken. It was my first discovery of the fact that men, even if they<br />are born free, will remain slaves of strict laws enacted by their forefathers; and that the firmament, which we<br />imagine as unchanging, is the yielding of today to the will of tomorrow and submission of yesterday to the<br />will of today −−Many a time, since the night, I have thought of the spiritual law which made Selma prefer<br />death to life, and many a time I have made a comparison between nobility of sacrifice and happiness of<br />rebellion to find out which one is nobler and more beautiful; but until now I have distilled only one truth out<br />of the whole matter, and this truth is sincerity, which makes all our deeds beautiful and honourable. And this<br />sincerity was in Selma Karamy.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6574854598044524254?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-64462348528002858232009-07-17T01:02:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:07:12.807-07:00In the midst of the gardens and hills which connect the city of Beirut with Lebanon there is a small temple,<br />very ancient, dug out of white rock , surrounded by olive, almond, and willow trees. Although this temple is a<br />half mile from the main highway, at the time of my story very few people interested in relics and ancient ruins<br />had visited it. It was one of many interesting places hidden and forgotten in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it<br />had become a haven for worshippers and a shrine for lonely lovers.<br />As one enters this temple he sees on the wall at the east side an old Phoenician picture, carved in the rock<br />depicting Ishtar, goddess of love and beauty, sitting on her throne, surrounded by seven nude virgins standing<br />in different posses. The first one carries a torch; the second, a guitar; the third, a censer; the fourth a jug of<br />wine; the fifth, a branch of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them<br />look at Ishtar reverently.<br />In the second wall there is another picture, more modern than the first one, symbolizing Christ nailed to the<br />cross, and at His side stand His sorrowful mother and Mary Magdalene and two other women weeping. This<br />Byzantine picture shows that it was carved in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.*<br />In the west side wall there are two round transits through which the sun's rays enter the temple and strike the<br />pictures and make them look as if they were painted with gold water colour. In the middle of the temple there<br />is a square marble with old paintings on its sides, some of which can hardly be seen under the petrified lumps<br />of blood which show that the ancient people offered sacrifices on this rock and poured perfume, wine, and oil<br />upon it.<br />There is nothing else in that little temple except deep silence, revealing to the living the secrets of the goddess<br />and speaking wordlessly of past generations and the evolution of religions. Such a sight carries the poet to a<br />world far away from the one in which he dwells and convinces the philosopher that men were born religious;<br />they felt a need for that which they could not see and drew symbols, the meaning of which divulged their<br />hidden secrets and their desires in life and death.<br />In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every month and spent the hours with her, looking at those strange<br />pictures, thinking of the crucified Christ and pondering upon the young Phoenician men and women who<br />lived, loved and worshipped beauty in the person of Ishtar by burning incense before her statue and pouring<br />perfume on her shrine, people for whom nothing is left to speak except the name, repeated by the march of<br />time before the face of Eternity.<br />It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma −−those heavenly hours,<br />filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery.<br />We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days, discussing our present, fearing our future, and<br />gradually bringing out the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each other of our<br />misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and<br />then we would become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything except Love; we<br />embraced each other until our hearts melted; then Selma would print a pure kiss on my forehead and fill my<br />heart with ecstasy; I would return the kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her cheeks became gently red like<br />the first ray of dawn on the forehead of hills. We silently looked at the distant horizon where the clouds were<br />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<br />ideas. During the course of conversation Selma spoke of woman's place in society, the imprint that the past<br />generation had left on her character, the relationship between husband and wife, and the spiritual diseases and<br />corruption which threatened married life. I remember her saying: "The poets and writers are trying to<br />understand the reality of woman, but up to this day they have not understood the hidden secrets of her heart,<br />because they look upon her from behind the sexual veil and see nothing but externals; they look upon her<br />through the magnifying glass of hatefulness and find nothing except weakness and submission.<br />In another occasion she said, pointing to the carved pictures on the walls of the temple, "In the heart of this<br />rock there are two symbols depicting the essence of a woman's desires and revealing the hidden secrets of her<br />soul, moving between love and sorrow −−between affection and sacrifice, between Ishtar sitting on the throne<br />and Mary standing by the cross. The man buys glory and reputation, but the woman pays the price."<br />No one knew about our secret meetings except God and the flock of birds which flew over the temple. Selma<br />used to come in her carriage to a place named Pasha park and from there she walked to the temple, where she<br />found me anxiously waiting for her.<br />We feared not the observer's eyes, neither did our consciences bother us; the spirit which is purified by fire<br />and washed by tears is higher than what the people call shame and disgrace; it is free from the laws of slavery<br />and old customs against the affections of the human heart. That spirit can proudly stand unashamed before the<br />throne of God.<br />Human society has yielded for seventy centuries to corrupted laws until it cannot understand the meaning of<br />the superior and eternal laws. A man's eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of candles and cannot<br />see the sunlight. Spiritual disease is inherited from one generation to another until it has become a part of<br />people, who look upon it, not as a disease, but as a natural gift, showered by God upon Adam. If those people<br />found someone free from the germs of this disease, they would think of him with shame and disgrace.<br />Those who think evil of Selma Karamy because she left her husband's home and met me in the temple are the<br />diseased and weak−minded kind who look upon the healthy and sound as rebels. They are like insects<br />crawling in the dark for fear of being stepped upon by the passer−by.<br />The oppressed prisoners, who can break away from his jail and does not do so, is a coward. Selma, an<br />innocent and oppressed prisoner, was unable to free herself from slavery. Was she to blame because she<br />looked through the jail window upon the green fields and spacious sky? Will the people count her as being<br />untruthful to her husband because she came from his home to sit by me between Christ and Ishtar? Let the<br />people say what they please; Selma had passed the marshes which submerge other spirits and had landed in a<br />world that could not be reached by the howling of wolves and rattling of snakes. People may say what they<br />want about me, for the spirit who has seen the spectre of death cannot be scared by the faces of thieves; the<br />soldier who has seen the swords glittering over his head and streams of blood under his feet does not care<br />about rocks thrown at him by the children on the streets. <br /><br />page 8<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-6446234852800285823?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-24914771828849841962009-07-17T01:01:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:24:07.936-07:00Marriage in these days is a mockery whose management is in the hands of young men and parents. In most<br />countries the young men win while the parents lose. The woman is looked upon as a commodity, purchased<br />and delivered from one house to another. In time her beauty fades and she becomes like an old piece of<br />furniture left in a dark corner.<br />Modern civilization has made woman a little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man's<br />covetousness. The woman of yesterday was a happy wife, but the woman of today is a miserable mistress. In<br />the past she walked blindly in the light, but now she walks open−eyed in the dark. She was beautiful in her<br />ignorance, virtuous in her simplicity, and strong in her weakness. Today she has become ugly in her<br />ingenuity, superficial and heartless in her knowledge. Will the day ever come when beauty and knowledge,<br />ingenuity and virtue, and weakness of body and strength of spirit will be united in a woman?<br />I am one of those who believe that spiritual progress is a rule of human life, but the approach to perfection is<br />slow and painful. If a woman elevates herself in one respect and is retarded in another, it is because the rough<br />trail that leads to the mountain peak is not free of ambushes of thieves and lairs of wolves.<br />This strange generation exists between sleeping and waking. It holds in its hands the soil of the past and the<br />seeds of the future. However, we find in every city a woman who symbolizes the future.<br />In the city of Beirut, Selma Karamy was the symbol of the future Oriental woman, but, like many who lie<br />ahead of their time, she became the victim of the present; and like a flower snatched from its stem and carried<br />away by the current of a river, she walked in the miserable procession of the defeated.<br />Mansour Bey Galib and Selma were married, and lived together in a beautiful house at Ras Beyrouth, where<br />all the wealthy dignitaries resided. Farris Effandi Karamy was left in his solitary home in the midst of his<br />garden and orchards like a lonely shepherd amid his flock.<br />The days and merry nights of the wedding passed, but the honeymoon left memories of times of bitter sorrow,<br />as wars leave skulls and dead bones on the battlefield. The dignity of an Oriental wedding inspires the hearts<br />of young men and women, but its termination may drop them like millstones to the bottom of the sea. Their<br />exhilaration is like footprints on sand which remain only till they are washed away by the waves.<br />Spring departed, and so did summer and autumn, but my love for Selma increased day by day until it became<br />a kind of mute worship, the feeling that an orphan has toward the soul of his mother in Heaven. My yearning<br />was converted to blind sorrow that could see nothing but itself, and the passion that drew tears from my eyes<br />was replaced by perplexity that sucked the blood from my heart, and my sighs of affection became a constant<br />prayer for the happiness of Selma and her husband and peace for her father.<br />My hopes and prayers were in vain, because Selma's misery was an internal malady that nothing but death<br />could cure.<br />Mansour Bey was a man to whom all the luxuries of life came easily; but, in spite of that, he was dissatisfied<br />and rapacious. After marrying Selma, he neglected her father in his loneliness and prayed for his death so that<br />he could inherit what was left of the old man's wealth.<br />Mansour Bey's character was similar to his uncle's; the only difference between the two was that the Bishop<br />got everything he wanted secretly, under the protection of his ecclesiastical robe and the golden cross which<br />he wore on his chest, while his nephew did everything publicly. The Bishop went to church in the morning<br />and spent the rest of the day pilfering from the widows, orphans, and simple minded people. But Mansour Bey<br />spent his days in pursuit of sexual satisfaction. On Sunday, Bishop Bulos Galib preached his Gospel; but<br />during weekdays he never practiced what he preached, occupying himself with political intrigues of the<br />locality. And, by means of his uncle's prestige and influence, Mansour Bey made it his business to secure<br />political plums for those who could offer a sufficient bribe.<br />Bishop Bulos was a thief who hid himself under the cover of night, while his nephew, Mansour Bey, was a<br />swindler who walked proudly in daylight. However, the people of Oriental nations place trust in such as<br />they−−wolves and butchers who ruin their country through covetousness and crush their neighbours with an<br />iron hand.<br />Why do I occupy these pages with words about the betrayers of poor nations instead of reserving all the space<br />for the story of a miserable woman with a broken heart? Why do I shed tears for oppressed peoples rather than<br />keep all my tears for the memory of a weak woman whose life was snatched by the teeth of death?<br />But my dear readers, don't' you think that such a woman is like a nation that is oppressed by priests and<br />rulers? Don't you believe that thwarted love which leads a woman to the grave is like the despair which<br />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<br />oil in the lamp is low?<br />Autumn passed, and the wind blew the yellow leaves form the trees, making way for winter, which came<br />howling and crying. I was still in the City of Beirut without a companion save my dreams, which would lift<br />my spirit to the sky and then bury it deep in the bosom of the earth.<br />The sorrowful spirit finds relaxation in solitude. It abhors people, as a wounded deer deserts the herd and lives<br />in a cave until it is healed or dead.<br />One day I heard Farris Effandi was ill. I left my solitary abode and walked to his home, taking a new route, a<br />lonely path between olive trees, avoiding the main road with its rattling carriage wheels.<br />Arriving at the old man's house, I entered and found Farris Effandi lying on his bed, weak and pale. His eyes<br />were sunken and looked like two deep, dark valleys haunted by the ghosts of pain. The smile which had<br />always enlivened his face was choked with pain and agony; and the bones of his gentle hands looked like<br />naked branches trembling before the tempest. As I approached him and inquired as to his health, he turned his<br />pale face toward me, and on his trembling lips appeared a smile, and he said in a weak voice, "Go −−go, my<br />son, to the other room and comfort Selma and bring her to sit by the side of my bed."<br />I entered the adjacent room and found Selma lying on a divan, covering her head with her arms and burying<br />her face in a pillow so that her father would not hear her weeping. Approaching slowly, I pronounced her<br />name in a voice that seemed more like sighing than whispering. She moved fearfully, as if she had been<br />interrupted in a terrible dream, and sat up, looking at me with glazed eyes, doubting whether I was a ghost or a<br />living being. After a deep silence which took us back on the wings of memory to that hour when we were<br />intoxicated with wine of love, Selma wiped away her tears and said, "See how time has changed us! See how<br />time has changed the course of our lives and left us in these ruins. In this place spring united us in a bond of<br />love, and in this place has brought us together before the throne of death. How beautiful was spring, and how<br />terrible is this winter!"<br />Speaking thus, she covered her face again with her hands as if she were shielding her eyes from the spectre of<br />the past standing before her. I put my hand on her head and said, "Come, Selma, come and let us be as strong<br />towers before the tempest. Let us stand like brave soldiers before the enemy and face his weapons. If we are<br />killed, we shall die as martyrs; and if we win, we shall live as heroes. Braving obstacles and hardships is <br />nobler than retreat to tranquillity. The butterfly that hovers around the lamp until it dies is more admirable<br />than the mole that lives in a dark tunnel. Come, Selma, let us walk this rough path firmly, with our eyes<br />toward the sun so that we may not see the skulls and serpents among the rocks and thorns. if fear should stop<br />us in middle of the road, we would hear only ridicule from the voices of the night, but if we reach the<br />mountain peak bravely we shall join the heavenly spirits in songs of triumph and joy. Cheer up, Selma, wipe<br />away your tears and remove the sorrow from your face. Rise, and let us sit by the bed of your father, because<br />his life depends on your life, and your smile is his only cure."<br />Kindly and affectionately she looked at me and said, "Are you asking me to have patience, while you are in<br />need of it yourself? Will a hungry man give his bread to another hungry man? Or will sick man give medicine<br />to another which he himself needs badly?"<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.<br />Selma forced a smile and pretended to be patient, and her father tried to make her believe that he was feeling<br />better and getting stronger; but both father and daughter were aware of each other's sorrow and heard the<br />unvoiced sighs. They were like two equal forces, wearing each other away silently. The father's heart was<br />melting because of his daughter's plight. They were two pure souls, one departing and the other agonized with<br />grief, embracing in love and death; and I was between the two with my own troubled heart. We were three<br />people, gathered and crushed by the hands of destiny; an old man like a dwelling ruined by flood, a young<br />woman whose symbol was a lily beheaded by the sharp edge of a sickle, and a young man who was a weak<br />sapling, bent by a snowfall; and all of us were toys in the hands of fate.<br />Farris Effandi moved slowly and stretched his weak hand toward Selma, and in a loving and tender voice said,<br />"Hold my hand, my beloved." Selma held his hand; then he said, "I have lived long enough, and I have<br />enjoyed the fruits of life's seasons. I have experienced all its phases with equanimity. I lost your mother when<br />you were three years of age, and she left you as a precious treasure in my lap. I watched you grow, and your<br />face reproduced your mother's features as stars reflected in a calm pool of water. Your character, intelligence,<br />and beauty are your mother's, even your manner of speaking and gestures. You have been my only<br />consolation in this life because you were the image of your mother in every deed and word. Now, I grow old,<br />and my only resting place is between the soft wings of death. Be comforted, my beloved daughter, because I<br />have lived long enough to see you as a woman. Be happy because I shall live in you after my death. My<br />departure today would be no different from my going tomorrow or the day after, for our days are perishing<br />like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my death<br />approaches rapidly, and my soul is desirous of being united with your mother's."<br />As he uttered these words sweetly and lovingly, his face was radiant. Then he put his hand under his pillow<br />and pulled out a small picture in a gold frame. With his eyes on the little photograph, he said, "Come, Selma,<br />come and see your mother in this picture."<br />Selma wiped away her tears, and after gazing long at the picture, she kissed it repeatedly and cried, "Oh, my<br />beloved mother! Oh, mother!" Then she placed her trembling lips on the picture as if she wished to pour her<br />soul into that image.<br />The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word "Mother," and the most beautiful call is the call of<br />"My mother." it is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart.<br />The mother is every thing −−she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in<br />weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his mother loses a pure<br />soul who blesses and guards him constantly.<br />Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother. The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of hear;<br />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<br /><br />birds and brooks. And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans<br />them. The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. And the mother, the<br />prototype of all existence, is the eternal spirit, full of beauty and love.<br />Selma Karamy never knew her mother because she had died when Selma was an infant, but Selma wept when<br />she saw the picture and cried, "Oh, mother!" The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our<br />lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the heart of the rose and mingles with clear<br />and cloudy air.<br />Selma stared at her mother's picture, kissing it repeatedly, until she collapsed by her father's bed.<br />The old man placed both hands on her head and said, "I have shown you, my dear child, a picture of your<br />mother on paper. Now listen to me and I shall let you hear her words."<br />She lifted her head like a little bird in the nest that hears its mother's wing, and looked at him attentively.<br />Farris Effandi opened his mouth and said, 'Your mother was nursing you when she lost her father; she cried<br />and wept at his going, but she was wise and patient. She sat by me in this room as soon as the funeral was<br />over and held my hand and said, 'Farris, my father is dead now and you are my only consolation in this world.<br />The heart's affections are divided like the branches of the cedar tree; if the tree loses one strong branch, it will<br />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<br />place.' This is what your mother told me when her father died, and you should say the same thing when death<br />takes my body to its resting place and my soul to God's care.'<br />Selma answered him with falling tears and broken heart, "When Mother lost her father, you took his place; but<br />who is going to take yours when you are gone? She was left in the care of a loving and truthful husband; she<br />found consolation in her little daughter, and who will be my consolation when you pass away? You have been<br />my father and mother and the companion of my youth."<br />Saying these words, she turned and looked at me, and, holding the side of my garment, said, "This is the only<br />friend I shall have after you are gone, but how can he console me when he is suffering also? How can a<br />broken heart find consolation in a disappointed soul? A sorrowful woman cannot be comforted by her<br />neighbour's sorrow, nor can a bird fly with broken wings. He is the friend of my soul, but I have already<br />placed a heavy burden of sorrow upon him and dimmed his eyes with my tears till he can see nothing but<br />darkness. he is a brother whom I dearly love, but he is like all brothers who share my sorrow and help me shed<br />tears which increase my bitterness and burn my heart."<br />Selma's words stabbed my heart, and I felt that I could bear no more. The old man listened to her with<br />depressed spirit. The old man listened to her with depressed spirit, trembling like the light of a lamp before the<br />wind. Then he stretched out his hand and said, "Let me go peacefully, my child. I have broken the bars of this<br />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<br />boat is ready to sail; do not delay its voyage. Let my body rest with those who are resting; let my dream end<br />and my soul awaken with the dawn; let your soul embrace mine and give me the kiss of hope; let no drops of<br />sorrow or bitterness fall upon my body lest the flowers and grass refuse their nourishment. Do not shed tears<br />of misery upon my hand, for they may grow thorns upon my grave. Do not draw lines of agony upon my<br />forehead, for the wind may pass and read them and refuse to carry the dust of my bones to the green prairies...<br />I love you, my child, while I lived, and I shall love you when I am dead, and my soul shall always watch over<br />you and protect you."<br />When Farris Effandi looked at me with his eyes half closed and said, "My son, be a real brother to Selma as<br />your father was to me. Be her help and friend in need, and do not let her mourn, because mourning for the<br /><br />dead is a mistake. Repeat to her pleasant tales and sing for her the songs of life so that she may forget her<br />sorrows. Remember me to your father; ask him to tell you the stories of your youth and tell him that I loved<br />him in the person of his son in the last hour of my life."<br />Silence prevailed, and I could see the pallor of death on the old man's face. Then he rolled his eyes and looked<br />at us and whispered, "Don't call the physician, for he might extend my sentence in this prison by his medicine.<br />The days of slavery are gone, and my soul seeks the freedom of the skies. And do not call the priest to my<br />bedside, because his incantations would not save me if I were a sinner, nor would it rush me to Heaven if I<br />were innocent. The will of humanity cannot change the will of God, as an astrologer cannot change the course<br />of the stars. But after my death let the doctors and priest do what they please, for my ship will continue sailing<br />until it reaches its destination."<br />At midnight Farris Effandi opened his tired eyes for the last time and focused them on Selma, who was<br />kneeling by his bedside. He tried to speak, but could not, for death had already choked his voice; but he<br />finally managed to say, "The night has passed... Oh, Selma...Oh...Oh, Selma..." Then he bent his head, his<br />face turned white, and I could see a smile on his lips as he breathed his last.<br />Selma felt her father's hand. It was cold. Then she raised her head and looked at his face. It was covered with<br />the veil of death. Selma was so choked that she could not shed tears, nor sigh, nor even move. For a moment<br />she stared at him with fixed eyes like those of a statue; then she bent down until her forehead touched the<br />floor, and said, "Oh, Lord, have mercy and mend our broken wings."<br />Farris Effandi Karamy died; his soul was embraced by Eternity, and his body was returned to the earth.<br />Mansour Bey Galib got possession of his wealth, and Selma became a prisoner of life−−a life of grief and<br />misery.<br />I was lost in sorrow and reverie. Days and nights preyed upon me as the eagle ravages its victim. Many a time<br />I tried to forget my misfortune by occupying myself with books and scriptures of past generation, but it was<br />like extinguishing fire with oil, for I could see nothing in the procession of the past but tragedy and could hear<br />nothing but weeping and wailing. The Book of Job was more fascinating to me than the Psalms and I<br />preferred the Elegies of Jeremiah to the Song of Solomon. Hamlet was closer to my heart than all other<br />dramas of western writers. Thus despair weakens our sight and closes our ears. We can see nothing but<br />spectres of doom and can hear only the beating of our agitated hearts.<br />page 7<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2491477182884984196?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-89844466532447511042009-07-17T00:59:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:22:36.932-07:00Everything that a man does secretly in the darkness of night will be clearly revealed in the daylight. Words<br />uttered in privacy will become unexpectedly common conversation. Deed which we hide today in the corners<br />of our lodgings will be shouted on every street tomorrow.<br />Thus the ghosts of darkness revealed the purpose of Bishop Bulos Galib's meeting with Farris Effandi<br />Karamy, and his conversation was repeated all over the neighbourhood until it reached my ears.<br />The discussion that took place between Bishop Bulos Galib and Farris Effandi that night was not over the<br />problems of the poor or the widows and orphans. The main purpose for sending after Farris Effandi and<br />bringing him in the Bishops' private carriage was the betrothal of Selma to the Bishop's nephew, Mansour Bey<br />Galib.<br />Selma was the only child of the wealthy Farris Effandi, and the Bishop's choice fell on Selma, not on account<br />of her beauty and noble spirit, but on account of her father's money which would guarantee Mansour Bey a<br />good and prosperous fortune and make him an important man.<br />The heads of religion in the East are not satisfied with their own munificence, but they must strive to make all<br />members of their families superiors and oppressors. The glory of a prince goes to his eldest son by<br />inheritance, but the exaltation of a religious head is contagious among his brothers and nephews. Thus the<br />Christian bishop and the Moslem imam and the Brahman priest become like sea reptiles who clutch their prey<br />with many tentacles and suck their blood with numerous mouths.<br />Then the Bishop demanded Selma's hand for his nephew, the only answer that he received from her father was<br />a deep silence and falling tears, for he hated to lose his only child. Any man's soul trembles when he is<br />separated from his only daughter whom he has reared to young womanhood.<br />The sorrow of parents at the marriage of a daughter is equal to their happiness at the marriage of a son,<br />because a son brings to the family a new member, while a daughter, upon her marriage, is lost to them.<br />Farris Effandi perforce granted the Bishop's request, obeying his will unwillingly, because Farris Effandi <br /><br />knew the Bishop's nephew very well, knew that he was dangerous, full of hate, wickedness, and corruption.<br />In Lebanon, no Christian could oppose his bishop and remain in good standing. No man could disobey his<br />religious head and keep his reputation. The eye could not resist a spear without being pierced, and the hand<br />could not grasp a sword without being cut off.<br />Suppose that Farris Effandi had resisted the Bishop and refused his wish; then Selma's reputation would have<br />been ruined and her name would have been blemished by the dirt of lips and tongues. In the opinion of the<br />fox, high bunches of grapes that can't be reached are sour.<br />Thus destiny seized Selma and led her like a humiliated slave in the procession of miserable oriental woman,<br />and thus fell that noble spirit into the trap after having flown freely on the white wings of love in a sky full of<br />moonlight scented with the odour of flowers.<br />In some countries, the parent's wealth is a source of misery for the children. The wide strong box which the<br />father and mother together have used for the safety of their wealth becomes a narrow, dark prison for the souls<br />of their heirs. The Almighty Dinar which the people worship becomes a demon which punished the spirit and<br />deadens the heart. Selma Karamy was one of those who were the victims of their parents' wealth and<br />bridegrooms' cupidity. Had it not been for her father's wealth, Selma would still be living happily.<br />A week had passed. The love of Selma was my sole entertainer, singing songs of happiness for me at night<br />and waking me at dawn to reveal the meaning of life and the secrets of nature. It is a heavenly love that is free<br />from jealousy, rich and never harmful to the spirit. It is deep affinity that bathes the soul in contentment; a<br />deep hunger for affection which, when satisfied, fills the soul with bounty; a tenderness that creates hope<br />without agitating the soul, changing earth to paradise and life to a sweet and a beautiful dream. In the<br />morning, when I walked in the fields, I saw the token of Eternity in the awakening of nature, and when I sat<br />by the seashore I heard the waves singing the song of Eternity. And when I walked in the streets I saw the<br />beauty of life and the splendour of humanity in the appearance of passers−by and movements of workers.<br />Those days passed like ghosts and disappeared like clouds, and soon nothing was left for me but sorrowful<br />memories. The eye with which I used to look at the beauty of spring and the awakening of nature, could see<br />nothing but the fury of the tempest and the misery of winter. The ears with which I formerly heard with<br />delight the song of the waves, could hear only the howling of the wind and the wrath of the sea against the<br />precipice. The soul which had observed happily the tireless vigour of mankind and the glory of the universe,<br />was tortured by the knowledge of disappointment and failure. Nothing was more beautiful than those days of<br />love, and nothing was more bitter than those horrible nights of sorrow.<br />When I could no longer resist the impulse, I went, on the weekend, once more to Selma's home −−the shrine<br />which Beauty had erected and which Love had blessed, in which the spirit could worship and the heart kneel<br />humbly and pray. When I entered the garden I felt a power pulling me away from this world and placing me in<br />a sphere supernaturally free from struggle and hardship. Like a mystic who receives a revelation of Heaven, I<br />saw myself amid the trees and flowers, and as I approached the entrance of the house I beheld Selma sitting<br />on the bench in the shadow of a jasmine tree where we both had sat the week before, on that night which<br />Providence had chosen for the beginning of my happiness and sorrow.<br />She neither moved nor spoke as I approached her. She seemed to have known intuitively that I was coming,<br />and when I sat by her she gazed at me for a moment and sighed deeply, then turned her head and looked at the<br />sky. And, after a moment full of magic silence, she turned back toward me and tremblingly took my hand and<br />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<br />which I can not recite. Look at me, my beloved... look at me, my brother."<br />I gazed at her intently and saw that those eyes, which a few days ago were smiling like lips and moving like<br />the wings of a nightingales, were already sunken and glazed with sorrow and pain. Her face, that had<br />resembled the unfolding, sun kissed leaves of a lily, had faded and become colourless. Her sweet lips were<br />like two withering roses that autumn has left on their stems. Her neck, that had been a column of ivory, was<br />bent forward as if it no longer could support the burden of grief in her head.<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<br />moon and makes it more beautiful. A look which reveals inward stress adds more beauty to the face, no matter<br />how much tragedy and pain it bespeaks; but the face which, in silence, does not announce hidden mysteries is<br />not beautiful, regardless of the symmetry of its features. The cup does not entice our lips unless the wine's<br />colour is seen through the transparent crystal.<br />Selma, on that evening, was like a cup full of heavenly wine concocted of the bitterness and sweetness of life.<br />Unaware, she symbolized the oriental woman who never leaves her parents' home until she puts upon her<br />neck the heavy yoke of her husband, who never leaves her loving mother's arms until she must live as a slave,<br />enduring the harshness of her husband's mother.<br />I continued to look at Selma and listen to her depressed spirit and suffer with her until I felt that time has<br />ceased and the universe had faded from existence. I could see only her two large eyes staring fixedly at me<br />and could feel only her cold, trembling hand holding mine.<br />I woke from my swoon hearing Selma saying quietly, "Come by beloved, let us discuss the horrible future<br />before it comes, My father has just left the house to see the man who is going to be my companion until death.<br />My father, whom God chose for the purpose of my existence, will meet the man whom the world has selected<br />to be my master for the rest of my life. In the heart of this city, the old man who accompanied me during my<br />youth will meet the young man who will be my companion for the coming years. Tonight the two families<br />will set the marriage date. What a strange and impressive hour! Last week at this time, under this jasmine tree,<br />Love embraced my soul for the first time, okay. While Destiny was writing the first word of my life's story at<br />the Bishop's mansion. Now, while my father and my suitor are planning the day of marriage, I see your spirit<br />quivering around me as a thirsty bird flickers above a spring of water guarded by a hungry serpent. Oh, how<br />great this night is! And how deep is its mystery!"<br />Learning these words, I felt that dark ghost of complete despondency was seizing our love to choke it in its<br />infancy, and I answered her, "That bird will remain flickering over that spring until thirst destroys him or falls<br />into the grasp of a serpent and becomes its prey."<br />She responded, "No, my beloved, this nightingale should remain alive and sing until dark comes, until spring<br />passes, until the end of the world, and keep on singing eternally. His voice should not be silenced, because he<br />brings life to my heart, his wings should not be broken, because their motion removes the cloud from my<br />heart.<br />When I whispered, "Selma, my beloved, thirst will exhaust him, and fear will kill him."<br />She replied immediately with trembling lips, "The thirst of soul is sweeter than the wine of material things,<br />and the fear of spirit is dearer than the security of the body. But listen, my beloved, listen carefully, I am<br />standing today at the door of a new life which I know nothing about. I am like a blind man who feels his way<br />so that he will not fall. My father's wealth has placed me in the slave market, and this man has bought me. I<br />neither know nor love him, but I shall learn to love him, and I shall obey him, serve him, and make him<br />happy. I shall give him all that a weak woman can give a strong man.<br />But you, my beloved, are still in the prime of life. You can walk freely upon life's spacious path, carpeted with<br />flowers. You are free to traverse the world, making of your heart a torch to light your way. You can think,<br />talk, and act freely; you can write your name on the face of life because you are a man; you can live as a<br />master because your father's wealth will not place you in the slave market to be bought and sold; you can<br />marry the woman of your choice and, before she lives in your home, you can let her reside in your heart and<br />can exchange confidences without hindrances."<br />Silence prevailed for a moment, and Selma continued, "But, is it now that Life will tear us apart so that you<br />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<br />nightingale in its depths, and the wind scatters the petals of the rose, and the feet tread upon the wind cup?<br />Were all those nights we spent in the moonlight by the jasmine tree, where our souls united, in vain? Did we<br />fly swiftly toward the stars until our wings tired, and are we descending now into the abyss? Or was Love<br />asleep when he came to us, and did he, when he woke, become angry and decide to punish us? Or did our<br />spirits turn the nights' breeze into a wind that tore us to pieces and blew us like dust to the depth of the valley?<br />We disobeyed no commandment, nor did we taste of forbidden fruit, so what is making us leave this paradise?<br />We never conspired or practised mutiny, then why are we descending to hell? No, no, the moments which<br />united us are greater than centuries, and the light that illuminated our spirits is stronger than the dark; and if<br />the tempest separates us on this rough ocean, the waves will unite us on the calm shore; and if this life kills us,<br />death will unite us. A woman's heart will change with time or season; even if it dies eternally, it will never<br />perish. A woman's heart is like a field turned into a battleground; after the trees are uprooted and the grass is<br />burned and the rocks are reddened with blood and the earth is planted with bones and skulls, it is calm and<br />silent as if nothing has happened; for the spring and autumn come at their intervals and resume their work.<br />And now, my beloved, what shall we do? How shall we part and when shall we meet? Shall we consider love<br />a strange visitor who came in the evening and left us in the morning? Or shall we suppose this affection a<br />dream that came in our sleep and departed when we awoke?<br />Shall we consider this week an hour of intoxication to be replaced by soberness? Raise your head and let me<br />look at you, my beloved; open your lips and let me hear your voice. Speak to me! Will you remember me after<br />this tempest has sunk the ship of our love? Will you hear the whispering of my wings in the silence of the<br />night? Will you hear my spirit fluttering over you? Will you listen to my sighs? Will you see my shadow<br />approach with the shadows of dusk and disappear with the flush of dawn? Tell me, my beloved, what will you<br />be after having been magic ray to my eyes, sweet song to my ears, and wings to my soul? What will you be?"<br />Learning these words, my heart melted, and I answered her, " I will be as you want me to be, my beloved."<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<br />traveller remembers a calm pool in which his image was reflected as he drank its water. I want you to<br />remember me as a mother remember her child that died before it saw the light, and I want you to remember<br />me as a merciful king remembers a prisoner who died before his pardon reached him. I want you to be my<br />companion, and I want you to visit my father and console him in his solitude because I shall be leaving him<br />soon and shall be a stranger to him.<br />I answered her, saying, " I will do all you have said and will make my soul an envelope for your soul, and my<br />heart a residence for your beauty and my breast a grave for your sorrows. I shall love you , Selma, as the<br />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<br />name as the valley sings the echo of the bells of the village churches; I shall listen to the language of your soul<br />as the shore listens to the story of the waves. I shall remember you as a stranger remembers his beloved<br />country, and as a hungry man remembers a banquet, and as a dethroned king remembers the days of his glory,<br />and as a prisoner remembers the hours of ease and freedom. I shall remember you as a sower remembers the<br />bundles of wheat on his threshing flour, and as a shepherd remembers the green prairies the sweet brooks."<br />Selma listened to my words with palpitating heart, and said "Tomorrow the truth will become ghostly and the<br />awakening will be like a dream. Will a lover be satisfied embracing a ghost, or will a thirsty man quench his<br />thirst from the spring or a dream?"<br />I answered her, "Tomorrow, destiny will put you in the midst of a peaceful family, but it will send me into the<br />world of struggle and warfare. You will be in the home of a person whom chance has made most fortunate<br />through your beauty and virtue, while I shall be living a life of suffering and fear. You will enter the gate of<br />life, while I shall enter the gate of death. You will be received hospitably, while I shall exist in solitude, but I<br />shall erect a statue of love and worship it in the valley of death. Love will be my sole comforter, and I shall<br />drink love like wine and wear it like garment. At dawn, Love will wake me from slumber and take me to the<br />distant field, and at noon will lead me to the shadows of trees, where I will find shelter with the birds from the<br />heat of the sun. In the evening, it will cause me to pause before sunset to hear nature's farewell song to the<br />light of day and will show me ghostly clouds sailing in the sky. At night, Love will embrace me, and I shall<br />sleep, dreaming of the heavenly world where the spirits of lovers and poets abide. In the Spring I shall walk<br />side by side with love among violets and jasmines and drink the remaining drops of winter in the lily cups. In<br />Summer we shall make the bundles of hay our pillows and the grass our bed, and the blue sky will cover us as<br />we gaze at the stars and the moon.<br />In Autumn, Love and I will go to the vineyard and sit by the wine press and watch the grapevines being<br />denuded of their golden ornaments, and the migrating flocks of birds will wing over us. In Winter, we shall sit<br />by the fireside reciting stories of long ago and chronicles of far countries. During my youth, Love will be my<br />teacher; in middle age, my help; and in old age, my delight. Love, my beloved Selma, will stay with me to the<br />end of my life, and after death the hand of God will unite us again."<br />All these words came from the depths of my heart like flames of fire which leap raging from the hearth and<br />then disappear in the ashes. Selma was weeping as if her eyes were lips answering me with tears.<br />Those whom love has not given wings cannot fly the cloud of appearances to see the magic world in which<br />Selma's spirit and mine existed together in that sorrowfully happy hour. Those whom Love has not chosen as<br />followers do not hear when Love calls. This story is not for them. Even if they should comprehend these<br />pages, they would not be able to grasp the shadowy meanings which are not clothed in words and do not<br />reside on paper, but what human being is he who has never sipped the wine from the cup of love, and what<br />spirit is it that has never stood reverently before that lighted altar in the temple whose pavement is the hearts<br />of men and women and whose ceiling is the secret canopy of dreams? What flower is that on whose leaves the<br />dawn has never poured a drop of dew; what streamlet is that which lost its course without going to the sea?<br />Selma raised her face toward the sky and gazed at the heavenly stars which studded the firmament. She<br />stretched out her hands; her eyes widened, and her lips trembled. On her pale face, I could see the signs of<br />sorrow, oppression, hopelessness, and pain. Then she cried, " Oh, Lord, what has a woman done that hath<br />offended Thee? What sin has she committed to deserve such a punishment? For what crime has she been<br />awarded everlasting castigation? Oh, Lord, Thou art strong, and I am weak. Why hast Thou made me suffer<br />pain? Thou art great and almighty, while I am nothing but a tiny creature crawling before Thy throne. Why<br />hast Thou crushed me with Thy foot? Thou art a raging tempest, and I am like dust; why, my Lord, hast Thou<br />flung me upon the cold earth? Thou art powerful, and I am helpless; why art Thou fighting me? Thou art<br />considerate, and I am prudent; why art Thou destroying me? Thou hast created woman with love, and why,<br />with love, dost Thou ruin her? With Thy right hand dost Thou lift her, and with Thy left hand dost Thou strike<br />her into the abyss, and she knows not why. In her mouth Thou blowest the breath of Life, and in her heart<br />Thou sowest the seeds of death. Thou dost show her the path of happiness, but Thou leadest her in the road of<br />misery; in her mouth Thou dost place a song of happiness, but then Thou dost close her lips with sorrow and<br />dost fetter her tongue with agony. With Thy mysterious fingers dost Thou dress her wounds, and with Thine<br />hands Thou drawest the dread of pain round her pleasures. In her bed Thou hidest pleasure and peace, but<br />beside it Thou dost erect obstacles and fear. Thou dost excite her affection through Thy will, and from her<br />affection does shame emanate. By Thy will Thou showest her the beauty of creation, but her love for beauty<br />becomes a terrible famine. Thou dost make her drink life in the cup of death, and death in the cup of life.<br />Thou purifiest her with tears, and in tears her life streams away. Oh, Lord, Thou hast opened my eyes with<br />love, and with love Thou hast blinded me. Thou hast kissed me with Thy lips and struck me with Thy strong<br />hand. Thou has planted in my heart a white rose, but around the rose a barrier of thorns. Thou hast tied my<br />present with the spirit of a young man whom I love, but my life with the body of an unknown man. So help<br />me, my Lord, to be strong in this deadly struggle and assist me to be truthful and virtuous until death. Thy will<br />be done. Oh , Lord God."<br />Silence continued. Selma looked down, pale and frail; her arms dropped, and her head bowed and it seemed to<br />me as if a tempest had broken a branch from a tree and cast it down to dry and perish.<br />I took her cold hand and kissed it, but when I attempted to console her it was I who needed consolation more<br />than she did. I kept silent, thinking of our plight and listening to my heartbeats. Neither of us said more.<br />Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an<br />earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart−threads had become weak and even<br />breathing would have broken them.<br />It was midnight, and we could see the crescent moon rising from behind Mount Sunnin, and it looked in the<br />midst of the stars, like the face of a corpse, in a coffin surrounded by the dim lights of candles. And Lebanon<br />looked like an old man whose back was bent with age and whose eyes were a haven for insomnia, watching<br />the dark and waiting for dawn, like asking sitting on the ashes of his throne in the debris of his palace.<br />The mountains, trees, and rivers change their appearance with the vicissitudes of times and seasons, as a man<br />changes with his experiences and emotions. The lofty poplar that resembles a bride in the daytime, will look<br />like a column of smoke in the evening; the huge rock that stands impregnable at noon, will appear to be a<br />miserable pauper at night, with earth for his bed and the sky for his cover; and the rivulet that we see glittering<br />in the morning and hear singing the hymn of Eternity, will, in the evening, turn to a stream of tears wailing<br />like a mother bereft of her child, and Lebanon, that had looked dignified a week before, when the moon was<br />full and our spirits were happy, looked sorrowful and lonesome that night.<br />We stood up and bade each other farewell, but love and despair stood between us like two ghosts, one<br />stretching his wings with his fingers over our throats, one weeping and the other laughing hideously.<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<br />dropped on the wooden bench. She shut her eyes and whispered softly, "Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and<br />mend my broken wings!"<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<br />concealed by fog.<br />The beauty of trees, the moonlight, the deep silence, everything about me looked ugly and horrible. The true<br />light that had showed me the beauty and wonder of the universe was converted to a great flame of fire that<br />seared my heart; and the Eternal music I used to hear became a clamour, more frightening than the roar of a<br />lion.<br />I reached my room, and like a wounded bird shot down by a hunter, I fell on my bed, repeating the words of<br />Selma: "Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and mend my broken wings!"<br /><br />page 6<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-8984446653244751104?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-29617734834465819882009-07-17T00:58:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:20:41.455-07:00One day Farris Effandi invited me to dinner at his home. I accepted, my spirit hungry for the divine bread<br />which Heaven placed in the hands of Selma, the spiritual bread which makes our hearts hungrier the more we<br />eat of it. It was this bread which Kais, the Arabian poet, Dante, and Sappho tasted and which set their hearts<br />afar; the bread which the Goddess prepares with the sweetness of kisses and the bitterness of tears.<br />As I reached the home of Farris Effandi, I saw Selma sitting on a bench in the garden resting her head against<br />a tree and looking like a bride in her white silk dress, or like a sentinel guarding that place.<br />Silently and reverently I approached and sat by her. I could not talk; so I resorted to silence, the only language<br />of the heart, but I felt that Selma was listening to my wordless call and watching the ghost of my soul in my<br />eyes.<br />In a few minutes the old man came out and greeted me as usual. When he stretched his hand toward me, I felt<br />as if he were blessing the secrets that united me and his daughter. Then he said, "Dinner is ready, my children;<br />let us eat. "We rose and followed him, and Selma's eyes brightened; for a new sentiment had been added to<br />her love by her father's calling us his children.<br />We sat at the table enjoying the food and sipping the old wine, but our souls were living in a world far away.<br />We were dreaming of the future and its hardships.<br />Three persons were separated in thoughts, but united in love; three innocent people with much feeling but<br />little knowledge; a drama was being performed by an old man who loved his daughter and cared for her<br />happiness, a young woman of twenty looking into the future with anxiety, and a young man, dreaming and<br />worrying, who had tasted neither the wine of life nor its vinegar, and trying to reach the height of love and<br />knowledge but unable to life himself up. We three sitting in twilight were eating and drinking in that solitary<br />home, guarded by Heaven's eyes, but at the bottoms of our glasses were hidden bitterness and anguish.<br />As we finished eating, one of the maids announced the presence of a man at the door who wished to see Farris<br />Effandi. "Who is he?" asked the old man. "The Bishop's messenger," said the maid. There was a moment of<br />silence during which Farris Effandi stared at his daughter like a prophet who gazes at Heaven to divine its<br />secret. Then he said to the maid, "Let the man in."<br />As the maid left, a man, dressed in oriental uniform and with big moustache curled at the ends, entered and<br />greeted the old man, saying "His Grace, the Bishop, has sent me for you with his private carriage; he wishes to<br />discuss important business with you." The old man's face clouded and his smile disappeared. After a moment<br />of deep thought he came close to me and said in a friendly voice, "I hope to find you here when I come back,<br />for Selma will enjoy your company in this solitary place."<br />Saying this, he turned to Selma and, smiling, asked if she agreed. She nodded her head, but her cheeks became<br />red, and with a voice sweeter than the music of the lyre she said, "I will do my best, Father, to make our guest<br />happy."<br />Selma watched the carriage that had taken her father and the Bishop's messenger until it disappeared. Then<br />she came and sat opposite me on a divan covered with green silk. She looked like a lily bent to the carpet of<br />green grass by the breeze of dawn. It was the will of Heaven that I should be with Selma alone, at night, in her<br />beautiful home surrounded by trees, where silence, love, beauty and virtue dwelt together.<br />We were both silent, each waiting for the other to speak, but speech is not the only means of understanding<br />between two souls. It is not the syllables that come from the lips and tongues that bring hearts together.<br />There is something greater and purer than what the mouth utters. Silence illuminates our souls, whispers to<br />our hearts, and brings them together. Silence separates us from ourselves, makes us sail the firmament of<br />spirit, and brings us closer to Heaven; it makes us feel that bodies are no more than prisons and that this world<br />is only a place of exile.<br />Selma looked at me and her eyes revealed the secret of her heart. Then she quietly said, "Let us go to the<br />garden and sit under the trees and watch the moon come up behind the mountains." Obediently I rose from my<br />seat, but I hesitated.<br />Don't you think we had better stay here until the moon has risen and illuminates the garden?" And I continued,<br />"The darkness hides the trees and flowers. We can see nothing."<br />Then she said, "If darkness hides the trees and flowers from our eyes, it will not hide love from our hearts."<br />Uttering these words in a strange tone, she turned her eyes and looked through the window. I remained silent,<br />pondering her words, weighing the true meaning of each syllable. Then she looked at me as if she regretted<br />what she had said and tried to take away those words from my ears by the magic of her eyes. But those eyes,<br />instead of making me forget what she had said, repeated through the depths of my heart more clearly and<br />effectively the sweet words which had already become graven in my memory for eternity.<br />Every beauty and greatness in this world is created by a single thought or emotion inside a man. Every thing<br />we see today, made by past generation, was, before its appearance, a thought in the mind of a man or an<br />impulse in the heart of a woman. The revolutions that shed so much blood and turned men's minds toward<br />liberty were the idea of one man who lived in the midst of thousands of men. The devastating wars which<br />destroyed empires were a thought that existed in the mind of an individual. The supreme teachings that<br />changed the course of humanity were the ideas of a man whose genius separated him from his environment. A<br />single thought build the Pyramids, founded the glory of Islam, and caused the burning of the library at<br />Alexandria.<br />One thought will come to you at night which will elevate you to glory or lead you to asylum. One look from a<br />woman's eye makes you the happiest man in the world. One word from a man's lips will make you rich or<br />poor.<br />That word which Selma uttered that night arrested me between my past and future, as a boat which is<br />anchored in the midst of the ocean. That word awakened me from the slumber of youth and solitude and set<br />me on the stage where life and death play their parts.<br />The scent of flowers mingled with the breeze as we came into the garden and sat silently on a bench near a<br />jasmine tree, listening to the breathing of sleeping nature, while in the blue sky the eyes of heaven witnessed<br />our drama.<br />The moon came out from behind Mount Sunnin and shone over the coast, hills, and mountains; and we could<br />see the villages fringing the valley like apparitions which have suddenly been conjured from nothing. We<br />could see the beauty of Lebanon under the silver rays of the moon.<br />Poets of the West think of Lebanon as a legendary place, forgotten since the passing of David and Solomon<br />and the Prophets, as the Garden of Eden became lost after the fall of Adam and Eve. To those Western poets,<br />the word "Lebanon" is a poetical expression associated with a mountain whose sides are drenched with the<br />incense of the Holy Cedars. It reminds them of the temples of copper and marble standing stern and<br />impregnable and of a herd of deer feeding in the valleys. That night I saw Lebanon dream−like with the eyes<br />of a poet.<br />Thus, the appearance of things changes according to the emotions, and thus we see magic and beauty in them,<br />while the magic and beauty are really in ourselves.<br />As the rays of the moon shone on the face, neck, and arms of Selma, she looked like a statue of ivory<br />sculptured by the fingers of some worshiper of Ishtar, goddess of beauty and love. As she looked at me, she<br />said, "Why are you silent? Why do you not tell me something about your past?" As I gazed at her, my<br />muteness vanished, and I opened my lips and said, "Did you not hear what I said when we came to this<br />orchard? The spirit that hears the whispering of flowers and the singing of silence can also hear the shrieking<br />of my soul and the clamour of my heart."<br />She covered her face with her hands and said in a trembling voice, "Yes, I heard you −−I heard a voice<br />coming from the bosom of night and a clamour raging in the heart of the day."<br />Forgetting my past, my very existence −−everything but Selma −−I answered her, saying, "And I heard you,<br />too, Selma. I heard exhilarating music pulsing in the air and causing the whole universe to tremble."<br />Upon hearing these words, she closed her eyes and her lips I saw a smile of pleasure mingled with sadness.<br />She whispered softly, "Now I know that there is something higher than heaven and deeper than the ocean and<br />stranger than life and death and time. I know now what I did not know before."<br />At that moment Selma became dearer than a friend and closer than a sister and more beloved than a<br />sweetheart. She became a supreme thought, a beautiful, an overpowering emotion living in my spirit.<br />It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring<br />of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created in years or even<br />generations.<br />Then Selma raised her head and gazed at the horizon where Mount Sunnin meets the sky, and said,<br />"Yesterday you were like a brother to me, with whom I lived and by whom I sat calmly under my father's<br />care. Now, I feel the presence of something stranger and sweeter than brotherly affection, an unfamiliar<br />commingling of love and fear that fills my heart with sorrow and happiness."<br />I responded, "This emotion which we fear and which shakes us when it passes through our hearts is the law of<br />nature that guides the moon around the earth and the sun around the God."<br />She put her hand on my head and wove her fingers through my hair. Her face brightened and tears came out of<br />her eyes like drops of dew on the leaves of a lily, and she said, "Who would believe our story −− who would<br />believe that in this hour we have surmounted the obstacles of doubt? Who would believe that the month of<br />Nisan which brought us together for the first time, is the month that halted us in the Holy of Holies of life?"<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<br />to that beautiful smooth hand whose fingers were twined in my hair.<br />Then I answered her: "People will not believe our story because they do not know what love is the only flower<br />that grows and blossoms without the aid of seasons, but was it Nisan that brought us together for the first<br />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<br />our souls close together before birth and made us prisoners of each other for all the days and nights? Man's<br />life does not commence in the womb and never ends in the grave; and this firmament, full of moonlight and<br />stars, is not deserted by loving souls and intuitive spirits."<br />As she drew her hand away from my head, I felt a kind of electrical vibration at the roots of my hair mingled<br />with the night breeze. Like a devoted worshiper who receives his blessing by kissing the altar in a shrine, I<br />took Selma's hand, placed my burning lips on it, and gave it a long kiss, the memory of which melts my heart<br />and awakens by its sweetness all the virtue of my spirit.<br />An hour passed, every minute of which was a year of love. The silence of the night, moonlight, flowers, and<br />trees made us forget all reality except love, when suddenly we heard the galloping of horses and rattling of<br />carriage wheels. Awakened from our pleasant swoon and plunged from the world of dreams into the world of<br />perplexity and misery, we found that the old man had returned from his mission. We rose and walked through<br />the orchard to meet him.<br />Then the carriage reached the entrance of the garden, Farris Effandi dismounted and slowly walked towards<br />us, bending forward slightly as if he were carrying a heavy load. He approached Selma and placed both of his<br />hands on her shoulders and stared at her. Tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks and his lips trembled with<br />sorrowful smile. In a choking voice, he said, "My beloved Selma, very soon you will be taken away from the<br />arms of your father to the arms of another man. Very soon fate will carry you from this lonely home to the<br />world's spacious court, and this garden will miss the pressure of your footsteps, and your father will become a<br />stranger to you. All is done; may God bless you."<br />Hearing these words, Selma's face clouded and her eyes froze as if she felt a premonition of death. Then she<br />screamed, like a bird shot down, suffering, and trembling, and in a choked voice said, "What do you say?<br />What do you mean? Where are you sending me?"<br />Then she looked at him searchingly, trying to discover his secret. In a moment she said, "I understand. I<br />understand everything. The Bishop has demanded me from you and has prepared a cage for this bird with<br />broken wings. Is this your will, Father?"<br />His answer was a deep sigh. Tenderly he led Selma into the house while I remained standing in the garden,<br />waves of perplexity beating upon me like a tempest upon autumn leaves. Then I followed them into the living<br />room, and to avoid embarrassment, shook the old man's hand, looked at Selma, my beautiful star, and left the<br />house.<br />As I reached the end of the garden I heard the old man calling me and turned to meet him. Apologetically he<br />took my hand and said, "Forgive me, my son. I have ruined your evening with the shedding of tears, but<br />please come to see me when my house is deserted and I am lonely and desperate. Youth, my dear son, does<br />not combine with senility, as morning does not have meet the night; but you will come to me and call to my<br />memory the youthful days which I spent with your father, and you will tell me the news of life which does not<br />count me as among its sons any longer. Will you not visit me when Selma leaves and I am left here in<br />loneliness?"<br />While he said these sorrowful words and I silently shook his hand, I felt the warm tears falling from his eyes<br />upon my hand. Trembling with sorrow and filial affection. I felt as if my heart were choked with grief. When I<br />raised my head and he saw the tears in my eyes, he bent toward me and touched my forehead with his lips.<br />"Good−bye, son, Good−bye."<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<br />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<br />leaf which falls with the wind at the approach of winter.<br />As I left the house of Farris Effandi Karamy, Selma's voice still rang in my ears, her beauty followed me like<br />a wraith, and her father's tears dried slowly on my hand.<br />My departure was like Adam's exodus from Paradise, but the Eve of my heart was not with me to make the<br />whole world an Eden. That night, in which I had been born again, I felt that I saw death's face for the first<br />time.<br />Thus the sun enlivens and kills the fields with its heat.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2961773483446581988?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-30936940477998751192009-07-17T00:56:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:19:27.643-07:00The month of Nisan had nearly passed. I continued to visit the home of Farris Effendi and to meet Selma in<br />that beautiful garden, gazing upon her beauty, marvelling at her intelligence, and hearing the stillness of<br />sorrow. I felt an invisible hand drawing me to her.<br />Every visit gave me a new meaning to her beauty and a new insight into her sweet spirit, Until she became a<br />book whose pages I could understand and whose praises I could sing, but which I could never finish reading.<br />A woman whom Providence has provided with beauty of spirit and body is a truth, at the same time both open<br />and secret, which we can understand only by love, and touch only by virtue; and when we attempt to describe<br />such a woman she disappears like vapour.<br />Selma Karamy had bodily and spiritual beauty, but how can I describe her to one who never knew her? Can a<br />dead man remember the singing of a nightingale and the fragrance of a rose and the sigh of a brook? Can a<br />prisoner who is heavily loaded with shackles follow the breeze of the dawn? Is not silence more painful than<br />death? Does pride prevent me from describing Selma in plain words since I cannot draw her truthfully with<br />luminous colours? A hungry man in a desert will not refuse to eat dry bread if Heaven does not shower him<br />with manna and quails.<br />In her white silk dress, Selma was slender as a ray of moonlight coming through the window. She walked<br />gracefully and rhythmically. Her voice was low and sweet; words fell from her lips like drops of dew falling<br />from the petals of flowers when they are disturbed by the wind.<br />But Selma's face! No words can describe its expression, reflecting first great internal suffering, then heavenly<br />exaltation.<br />The beauty of Selma's face was not classic; it was like a dream of revelation which cannot be measured or<br />bound or copied by the brush of a painter or the chisel of a sculptor. Selma's beauty was not in her golden<br />hair, but in the virtue of purity which surrounded it; not in her large eyes, but in the light which emanated<br />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<br />the front. Nor was it in her perfect figure, but in the nobility of her spirit, burning like a white torch between<br />earth and sky. her beauty was like a gift of poetry. But poets care unhappy people, for, no matter how high<br />their spirits reach, they will still be enclosed in an envelope of tears.<br />Selma was deeply thoughtful rather than talkative, and her silence was a kind of music that carried one to a<br />world of dreams and made him listen to the throbbing of his heart, and see the ghosts of his thoughts and<br />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<br />blossom is more lovely when seen through the mist of dawn.<br />Sorrow linked her spirit and mine, as if each saw in the other's face what the heart was feeling and heard the<br />echo of a hidden voice. God had made two bodies in one, and separation could be nothing but agony.<br />The sorrowful spirit finds rest when united with a similar one. They join affectionately, as a stranger is<br />cheered when he sees another stranger in a strange land. Hearts that are united through the medium of sorrow<br />will not be separated by the glory of happiness. Love that is cleansed by tears will remain externally pure and<br />beautiful.<br />page 5<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3093694047799875119?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-52013926521356175932009-07-17T00:55:00.002-07:002009-07-17T01:18:49.573-07:00In a few days, loneliness overcame me; and I tired of the grim faces of books; I hired a carriage and started for<br />the house of Farris Effandi. As I reached the pine woods where people went for picnics, the driver took a<br />private way, shaded with willow trees on each side. Passing through , we could see the beauty of the green<br />grass, the grapevines, and the many coloured flowers of Nisan just blossoming.<br />In a few minutes the carriage stopped before a solitary house in the midst of a beautiful garden. The scent of<br />roses, gardenia, and jasmine filled the air. As I dismounted and entered the spacious garden, I saw Farris<br />Effandi coming to meet me. He ushered me into his house with a hearty welcome and sat by me, like a happy<br />father when he sees his son, showering me with questions on my life, future and education. I answered him,<br />my voice full of ambition and zeal; for I heard ringing in my ears the hymn of glory, and I was sailing the<br />calm sea of hopeful dreams. Just then a beautiful young woman, dressed in a gorgeous white silk gown,<br />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<br />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<br />visitor could have entered their house. Her hand, when I touched it, was like a white lily, and a strange pang<br />pierced my heart.<br />We all sat silent as if Selma had brought into the room with her heavenly spirit worthy of mute respect. As she<br />felt the silence she smiled at me and said," Many a times my father has repeated to me the stories of his youth<br />and of the old days he and your father spent together. If your father spoke to you in the same way, then this<br />meeting is not the first one between us."<br />The old man was delighted to hear his daughter talking in such a manner and said, "Selma is very sentimental.<br />She sees everything through the eyes of the spirit." Then he resumed his conversation with care and tact as if<br />he had found in me a magic which took him on the wings of memory to the days of the past.<br />As I considered him, dreaming of my own later years, he looked upon me, as a lofty old tree that has<br />withstood storms and sunshine throws its shadow upon a small sapling which shakes before the breeze of<br />dawn.<br />But Selma was silent. Occasionally, she looked first at me and then at her father as if reading the first and last<br />chapters of life's drama. The day passed faster in that garden, and I could see through the window the ghostly<br />yellow kiss of sunset on the mountains of Lebanon. Farris Effandi continued to recount his experiences and I<br />listened entranced and responded with such enthusiasm that his sorrow was changed to happiness.<br />Selma sat by the window, looking on with sorrowful eyes and not speaking, although beauty has its own<br />heavenly language, loftier than he voices of tongues and lips. It is a timeless language, common to all<br />humanity, a calm lake that attracts the singing rivulets to its depth and makes them silent.<br />Only our spirits can understand beauty, or live and grow with it. It puzzles our minds; we are unable to<br />describe it in words; it is a sensation that our eyes cannot see, derived from both the one who observes and the<br />one who is looked upon. Real beauty is a ray which emanates from the holy of holies of the spirit, and<br />illuminates the body, as life comes from the depths of the earth and gives colour and scent to a flower.<br />Real beauty lies in the spiritual accord that is called love which can exist between a man and a woman.<br />Did my spirit and Selma's reach out to each other that day when we met, and did that yearning make me see<br />her as the most beautiful woman under the sun? Or was I intoxicated with the wine of youth which made me<br />fancy that which never existed.?<br />Did my youth blind my natural eyes and make me imagine the brightness of her eyes, the sweetness of her<br />mouth, and the grace of her figure? Or was it that her brightness, sweetness, and grace opened my eyes and<br />showed me the happiness and sorrow of love?<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<br />before, a new affection resting calmly in my heart, like the spirit hovering over the waters at the creation of<br />the world, and from that affection was born my happiness and my sorrow. Thus ended the hour of my first<br />meeting with Selma, and thus the will of Heaven freed me from the bondage of youth and solitude and let me<br />walk in the procession of love.<br />Love is the only freedom in the world because it so elevates the spirit that the laws of humanity and the<br />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<br />know your way to this house, you should come often and feel that you are coming to your father's house.<br />Consider me as a father and Selma as a sister." Saying this, he turned to Selma as if to ask confirmation of his<br />statement. She nodded her head positively and then looked at me as one who has found an old acquaintance.<br />Those words uttered by Farris Effandi Karamy placed me side by side with his daughter at the altar of love.<br />Those words were a heavenly song which started with exaltation and ended with sorrow; they raised our<br />spirits to the realm of light and searing flame; they were the cup from which we drank happiness and<br />bitterness.<br />I left the house. The old man accompanied me to the edge of the garden, while my heart throbbed like the<br />trembling lips of a thirsty man.<br /><br />page 4<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5201392652135617593?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-17570546329183951432009-07-17T00:55:00.001-07:002009-07-17T01:17:37.574-07:00In the spring of the that wonderful year, I was in Beirut. The gardens were full of Nisan flowers and the earth<br />was carpeted with green grass, and like a secret of earth revealed to Heaven. The orange trees and apple trees,<br />looking like houris or brides sent by nature to inspire poets and excite the imagination, were wearing white<br />garments of perfumed blossoms.<br />Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is most beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit that roams round the earth but<br />hovers over Lebanon, conversing with kings and prophets, singing with the rives the songs of Solomon, and<br />repeating with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the memory of ancient glory. Beirut, free from the mud of winter<br />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<br />smooth skin in the rays of the sun.<br />One day, in the month of Nisan, I went to visit a friend whose home was at some distance from the glamorous<br />city. As we were conversing, a dignified man of about sixty−five entered the house. As I rose to greet him, my<br />friend introduced him to me as Farris Effandi Karamy and then gave him my name with flattering words. The<br />old man looked at me a moment, touching his forehead with the ends of his fingers as if he were trying to<br />regain his memory. Then he smilingly approached me saying, " You are the son of a very dear friend of mine,<br />and I am happy to see that friend in your person."<br />Much affected by his words, I was attracted to him like a bird whose instinct leads him to his nest before the<br />coming of the tempest. As we sat down, he told us about his friendship with my father, recalling the time<br />which they spent together. An old man likes to return in memory to the days of his youth like a stranger who<br />longs to go back to his own country. He delights to tell stories of the past like a poet who takes pleasure in<br />reciting his best poem. He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems<br />to him an approach to the oblivion of the grave. An hour full of old memories passed like the shadows of the<br />trees over the grass. When Farris Effandi started to leave, he put his left hand on my shoulder and shook my<br />right hand, saying, " I have not seen your father for twenty years. I hope you will l take his place in frequent<br />visits to my house." I promised gratefully to do my duty toward a dear friend of my father.<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<br />other man in Beirut whose wealth has made him kind and whose kindness has made him wealthy. He is one of<br />the few who come to this world and leave it without harming any one, but people of that kind are usually<br />miserable and oppressed because they are not clever enough to save themselves from the crookedness of<br />others. Farris Effandi has one daughter whose character is similar to his and whose beauty and gracefulness<br />are beyond description, and she will also be miserable because her father's wealth is placing her already at the<br />edge of a horrible precipice."<br />As he uttered these words, I noticed that his face clouded. Then he continued, "Farris Effandi is a good old<br />man with a noble heart, but he lacks will power. People lead him like a blind man. His daughter obeys him in<br />spite of her pride and intelligence, and this is the secret which lurks in the life of father and daughter. This<br />secret was discovered by an evil man who is a bishop and whose wickedness hides in the shadow of his<br />Gospel. He makes the people believe that he is kind and noble. He is the head of religion in this land of the<br />religions. The people obey and worship him. he leads them like a flock of lambs to the slaughter house. This<br />bishop has a nephew who is full of hatefulness and corruption. The day will come sooner or later when he will<br />place his nephew on his right and Farris Effandi's daughter on this left, and, holding with his evil hand the<br />wreath of matrimony over their heads, will tie a pure virgin to a filthy degenerate, placing the heart of the day<br />in the bosom of the night.<br />That is all I can tell you about Farris Effandi and his daughter, so do not ask me any more questions."<br />Saying this, he turned his head toward the window as if he were trying to solve the problems of human<br />existence by concentrating on the beauty of the universe.<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<br />fulfilling my promise and for the sake of the friendship which had joined him and my father. He stared at me<br />for a moment, and I noticed a change in his expression as if my few simple words had revealed to him a new<br />idea. Then he looked straight through my eyes in a strange manner, a look of love, mercy, and fear −−the look<br />of a prophet who foresees what no one else can divine. Then his lips trembled a little, but he said nothing<br />when I started towards the door. That strange look followed me, the meaning of which I could not understand<br />until I grew up in the world of experience, where hearts understand each other intuitively and where spirits are<br />mature with knowledge.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-1757054632918395143?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-86814549039059714492009-07-17T00:54:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:16:12.717-07:00My neighbours, you remember the dawn of youth with pleasure and regret its passing; but I remember it like a<br />prisoner who recalls the bars and shackles of his jail. You speak of those years between infancy and youth as a<br />golden era free from confinement and cares, but I call those years an era of silent sorrow which dropped as a<br />seed into my heart and grew with it and could find no outlet to the world of Knowledge and wisdom until love<br />came and opened the heart's doors and lighted its corners. Love provided me with a tongue and tears. You<br />people remember the gardens and orchids and the meeting places and street corners that witnessed your games<br />and heard your innocent whispering; and I remember, too, the beautiful spot in North Lebanon. Every time I<br />close my eyes I see those valleys full of magic and dignity and those mountains covered with glory and<br />greatness trying to reach the sky. Every time I shut my ears to the clamour of the city I hear the murmur of the<br />rivulets and the rustling of the branches. All those beauties which I speak of now and which I long to see, as a<br />child longs for his mother's breast, wounded my spirit, imprisoned in the darkness of youth, as a falcon suffers<br />in its cage when it sees a flock of birds flying freely in the spacious sky. Those valleys and hills fired my<br />imagination, but bitter thoughts wove round my heart a net of hopelessness.<br />Every time I went to the fields I returned disappointed, without understanding the cause of my<br />disappointment. Every time I looked at the grey sky I felt my heart contract. Every time I heard the singing of<br />the birds and babbling of the spring I suffered without understanding the reason for my suffering. It is said<br />that unsophistication makes a man empty and that emptiness makes him carefree. It may be true among those<br />who were born dead and who exist like frozen corpses; but the sensitive boy who feels much and knows little<br />is the most unfortunate creature under the sun, because he is torn by two forces. the first force elevates him<br />and shows him the beauty of existence through a cloud of dreams; the second ties him down to the earth and<br />fills his eyes with dust and overpowers him with fears and darkness.<br /><br />Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow.<br />Solitude is the ally of sorrow as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation.<br />The boy's soul undergoing the buffeting of sorrow is like a white lily just unfolding. It trembles before the<br />breeze and opens its heart to day break and folds its leaves back when the shadow of night comes. If that boy<br />does not have diversion or friends or companions in his games his life will be like a narrow prison in which he<br />sees nothing but spider webs and hears nothing but the crawling of insects.<br />That sorrow which obsessed me during my youth was not caused by lack of amusement, because I could have<br />had it; neither from lack of friends, because I could have found them. That sorrow was caused by an inward<br />ailment which made me love solitude. It killed in me the inclination for games and amusement. It removed<br />from my shoulders the wings of youth and made me like a pong of water between mountains which reflects in<br />its calm surface the shadows of ghosts and the colours of clouds and trees, but cannot find an outlet by which<br />to pass singing to the sea.<br />Thus was my life before I attained the age of eighteen. That year is like a mountain peak in my life, for it<br />awakened knowledge in me and made me understand the vicissitudes of mankind. In that year I was reborn<br />and unless a person is born again his life will remain like a blank sheet in the book of existence. In that year, I<br />saw the angels of heaven looking at me through the eyes of a beautiful woman. I also saw the devils of hell<br />raging in the heart of an evil man. He who does not see the angels and devils in the beauty and malice of life<br />will be far removed from knowledge, and his spirit will be empty of affection.<br /><br />page 2<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-8681454903905971449?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-49085957441005900402009-07-17T00:51:00.000-07:002009-07-17T01:15:38.079-07:00FOREWORD<br />I was eighteen years of age when love opened my eyes with its magic rays and touched my spirit for the first<br />time with its fiery fingers, and Selma Karamy was the first woman who awakened my spirit with her beauty<br />and led me into the garden of high affection, where days pass like dreams and nights like weddings.<br />Selma Karamy was the one who taught me to worship beauty by the example of her own beauty and revealed<br />to me the secret of love by her affection; se was the one who first sang to me the poetry of real life.<br />Every young man remembers his first love and tries to recapture that strange hour, the memory of which<br />changes his deepest feeling and makes him so happy in spite of all the bitterness of its mystery.<br />In every young man's life there is a "Selma" who appears to him suddenly while in the spring of life and<br />transforms his solitude into happy moments and fills the silence of his nights with music.<br />I was deeply engrossed in thought and contemplation and seeking to understand the meaning of nature and the<br />revelation of books and scriptures when I heard LOVE whispered into my ears through Selma's lips. My life<br />was a coma, empty like that of Adam's in Paradise, when I saw Selma standing before me like a column of<br />light. She was the Eve of my heart who filled it with secrets and wonders and made me understand the<br />meaning of life.<br />The first Eve led Adam out of Paradise by her own will, while Selma made me enter willingly into the<br />paradise of pure love and virtue by her sweetness and love; but what happened to the first man also happened<br />to me, and the fiery word which chased Adam out of Paradise was like the one which frightened me by its<br />glittering edge and forced me away from paradise of my love without having disobeyed any order or tasted the<br />fruit of the forbidden tree.<br /><br /><br />Today, after many years have passed, I have nothing left out of that beautiful dream except painful memories<br />flapping like invisible wings around me, filling the depths of my heart with sorrow, and bringing tears to my<br />eyes; and my beloved, beautiful Selma, is dead and nothing is left to commemorate her except my broken<br />heart and tomb surrounded by cypress trees. That tomb and this heart are all that is left to bear witness of<br />Selma.<br />The silence that guards the tomb does not reveal God's secret in the obscurity of the coffin, and the rustling of<br />the branches whose roots suck the body's elements do not tell the mysteries of the grave, by the agonized<br />sighs of my heart announce to the living the drama which love, beauty, and death have performed.<br />Oh, friends of my youth who are scattered in the city of Beirut, when you pass by the cemetery near the pine<br />forest, enter it silently and walk slowly so the tramping of your feet will not disturb the slumber of the dead,<br />and stop humbly by Selma's tomb and greet the earth that encloses her corpse and mention my name with<br />deep sigh and say to yourself, "here, all the hopes of Gibran, who is living as prisoner of love beyond the seas,<br />were buried. On this spot he lost his happiness, drained his tears, and forgot his smile."<br />By that tomb grows Gibran's sorrow together with the cypress trees, and above the tomb his spirit flickers<br />every night commemorating Selma, joining the branches of the trees in sorrowful wailing, mourning and<br />lamenting the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a beautiful tune on the lips of life and today is a silent<br />secret in the bosom of the earth.<br />Oh, comrades of my youth! I appeal to you in the names of those virgins whom your hearts have loved, to lay<br />a wreath of flowers on the forsaken tomb of my beloved, for the flowers you lay on Selma's tomb are like<br />falling drops of dew for the eyes of dawn on the leaves of withering rose.<br /><br /> page 1<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-4908595744100590040?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-16422335409504659192009-05-20T09:53:00.000-07:002009-11-08T08:59:57.206-08:00Allora uno dei giudici della città si fece avanti e disse: Parlaci della Colpa e del Castigo. Ed egli rispose: E’ quando il vostro spirito vaga nel vento, che voi, soli ed imprudenti, commettete un errore verso gli altri e di conseguenza verso voi stessi. E per quell’errore dovete bussare ed attendere a lungo Davanti alla porta dei beati.<br />La vostra essenza divina è come l’oceano; rimane per sempre incontaminata. E come l’etere sorregge solo gli esseri alati. La vostra essenza divina è anche simile al sole; non conosce i cunicoli della talpa né cerca le buche del serpente. Ma la vostra essenza divina non dimora solo nel vostro Essere. Molto in voi è rimasto di umano, e molto in voi non è Ancora nemmeno umano. Bensì è un pigmeo informe che cammina nel sonno Attraversando la bruma in cerca del proprio risveglio. E’ di ciò che di umano è in voi che vorrei parlarvi. Poiché è l’umano che è in voi, non la vostra essenza Divina, né il pigmeo della bruma, che conosce La colpa ed il castigo.<br />Spesso vi ho sentito parlare di chi ha commesso un errore Come se egli non fosse uno di voi, ma un estraneo ed Un intruso nel vostro mondo. Ma io dico che come il santo ed il giusto non possono Elevarsi al di sopra di ciò che di più sublime è in voi, così il malvagio ed il debole non possono cadere più in basso di ciò che è più infimo in voi. E come una singola foglia non può ingiallire se non Con il tacito consenso dell’intera pianta. Così il malvagio non può compiere del male senza La complicità di tutti voi. Andate insieme come in processione verso la vostra Essenza divina. Voi siete la via ed i viandanti. E quando uno di voi cade, cade a vantaggio di coloro Che lo seguono, mettendoli in guardia contro l’ostacolo. Si, ma cade anche a causa di coloro che lo hanno preceduto, che, sebbene di passo più veloce e sicuro, non rimossero l’ostacolo.<br />E vi dirò ancora una cosa nonostante la parola pesi Sui vostri cuori: L’assassinato è responsabile della propria uccisione, ed il derubato ha colpa del furto subito. Il giusto non è irresponsabile delle azioni del malvagio, e chi è innocente non è estraneo alle imprese dell’empio. Sì, spesso il colpevole è vittima della parte lesa. Ed ancora più di sovente il condannato porta il peso di Chi è senza biasimo e colpa. Non è possibile separare il giusto dall’ingiusto ed il Buono dal cattivo. Poiché questi al cospetto del sole sono uniti come Il filo bianco e quello nero tessuti insieme. E quando il filo nero si spezza il tessitore controllerà Non solo tutta la tela ma anche il telaio.<br />Se qualcuno di voi volesse condurre a giudizio una Moglie infedele, pesi sulla bilancia anche il cuore Del marito e ne misuri l’anima. E chi volesse frustare l’offensore, scruti prima bene Lo spirito dell’offeso. E se qualcuno di voi volesse punire in nome Della giustizia l’albero del male servendosi di una Scure, ne esamini prima le radici; Ed in verità vi troverà le radici del bene e del male, del fecondo e dello sterile, tutte fra loro intrecciate nel silenzioso cuore della terra. E voi giudici che vi dichiarate giusti, che giudizio pronunciate a carico di colui che, sebbene onesto nella carne, è un ladro nello spirito? E come punire colui che di fatto è un truffatore Ed un tiranno, ma che nello stesso tempo è lui Stesso addolorato ed offeso?<br />E come punirete coloro il cui rimorso è già Più grande delle loro colpe? Forse che il rimorso non è che quella giustizia Amministrata dalla stessa legge che di buon grado Servireste?<br />Tuttavia il rimorso non potete imporlo all’innocente, né toglierlo dal cuore del colpevole. Inaspettato, il rimorso chiamerà nella notte Affinché gli uomini si sveglino e guardino nelle Loro anime. E voi che vorreste amministrare bene la giustizia, come lo potrete se non esaminando ogni azione in piena luce? Solo allora capirete che il giusto ed il peccatore Non sono che un unico uomo nel crepuscolo tra La notte della sua essenza pigmea ed il giorno Della sua essenza divina. E che la pietra angolare del tempio non è più Alta della pietra più bassa delle sue fondamenta.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-1642233540950465919?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-8393655215123403172009-05-20T09:52:00.004-07:002009-05-20T09:53:39.969-07:00E così si fece sera. e Almitra, l'indovina, disse: Sia benedetto questo giorno e questo luogo e il tuo spirito che ha parlato. E lui rispose: Ero io a parlare ? Non sono stato io stesso un uditore ? Quindi scese i gradini del tempio e tutto il popolo lo seguì. Lui raggiunse la sua nave e restò in piedi sul ponte. E ancora rivolto al popolo levò alta la voce e disse: Popolo di Orfalese, il vento mi comanda di lasciarvi. Io sono meno impaziente del vento, tuttavia devo andare. Per noi, viandanti eternamente alla ricerca della via più solitaria, non inizia il giorno dove un altro giorno finisce, e nessuna aurora ci trova dove ci ha lasciato al tramonto. Anche quando dorme la terra, noi procediamo nel viaggio. Siamo i semi della tenace pianta, ed è nella nostra maturità e pienezza di cuore che veniamo consegnati al vento e dispersi. Brevi furono i miei giorni tra voi, e ancor più brevi le parole che ho detto. Ma se la mia voce si affievolirà nel vostro orecchio e il mio amore svanirà nella vostra memoria, allora io tornerò. E con cuore più ricco e labbra più docili allo spirito, parlerò con voi. Sì, tornerò con la marea, E se anche la morte mi celasse e mi avvolgesse il silenzio più profondo, ancora cercherò il vostro ascolto. E non cercherò invano. Se ciò che ho detto è verità, questa verità dovrà rivelarsi in una voce più chiara e in parole più somiglianti ai vostri pensieri. Io vado col vento, popolo di Orfalese, ma non verso il nulla. E se questo giorno non è compimento delle vostre attese né del mio amore, sia allora promessa per un altro giorno. I bisogni dell'uomo mutano, ma non il suo amore né il desiderio che sia l'amore a placarli. Sappiate dunque che io tornerò dal silenzio più grande. La nebbia che all'alba si dissolve e lascia sui campi solo rugiada, si alzerà per raccogliersi in nube e ricadere sotto forma di pioggia. E io fui come nebbia. Nella quiete della notte ho camminato per le vostre strade e il mio spirito è entrato nelle vostre case, I palpiti del vostro cuore erano nel mio cuore e sul mio volto soffiava il vostro respiro, e vi ho conosciuti tutti. Sì, ho conosciuto la vostra gioia e il vostro dolore e, nel sonno, i vostri sogni erano i miei sogni. Tra voi sovente sono stato un lago circondato da montagne. In me si sono rispecchiate le vostre vette e i curvi pendii, e anche il lento sfilare delle greggi dei vostri pensieri e passioni. E al mio silenzio è giunto come a ruscelli il riso dei vostri bambini e a fiumi l'ardente desiderio dei vostri giovani. E raggiunta la mia profondità, ruscelli e fiumi non avevano ancora smesso il canto. Ma qualcosa di più dolce del riso e più grande del desiderio è giunto sino a me. L'infinito in voi; L'uomo immenso del quale non siete altro che cellule e nervi; Nel cui cantico ogni vostra voce non è che un muto singhiozzo. E' nell'uomo immenso che voi siete immensi, Ed è nel guardarlo che vi ho guardato e amato. Poiché a quali distanze, al di là di questa immensa sfera, può giungere l'amore ? Quali visioni, quali attese e quali speranze si eleveranno oltre quel volo ? Come una quercia gigantesca in piena fioritura è l'uomo immenso in voi. La sua forza vi lega alla terra, la sua fragranza vi solleva nell'aria, e nel suo perdurare voi siete immortali. Vi è stato detto che voi, simili a una catena, siete deboli quanto il vostro anello più debole. Questa non è che una mezza verità. Voi siete anche forti come il vostro anello più forte. Misurarvi dalla vostra azione più meschina è come calcolare la potenza dell'oceano dalla fragilità della sua schiuma. Giudicarvi dai vostri errori è accusare le stagioni per la loro incostanza. Sì, voi siete come l'oceano, E sebbene le navi, pesanti di carichi, attendano la marea sulle vostre rive, voi, come l'oceano, non la potete affrettare. E inoltre siete come le stagioni, E benché nel vostro inverno neghiate la vostra primavera, La primavera che è in voi sorride intatta e assopita. Non pensiate che io vi parli così affinché vi diciate l'un l'altro: "Ci ha ben lodato. In noi non ha visto che il buono". Io vi ho solo tradotto in parole ciò che voi stesse conoscete in pensiero. E che cos'è la parola se non l'ombra di una conoscenza inespressa ? I vostri pensieri e le mie parole sono le onde di una memoria sigillata che conserva la traccia del nostro passato, E dei remoti giorni in cui la terra non conosceva noi né sé stessa, E delle notti in cui era preda del caos. Uomini savi sono venuti per darvi la loro saggezza. Io sono venuto per attingerla da voi. E ho trovato quanto è più grande della saggezza: La fiamma dello spirito in voi che si alimenta di sé stessa, Mentre voi, noncuranti del suo espandersi, piangete l'inaridire dei giorni. E ho trovato la vita che cerca la vita in corpi che temono la tomba. Qui non ci sono tombe. Queste montagne e queste pianure sono una culla e una pietra per il guado. Quando passate per il campo dopo aver sepolto i vostri avi, guardatevi intorno e vedrete voi stessi con i vostri figli danzare mano nella mano. In verità, spesso fate festa senza saperlo. Altri uomini vennero a blandire la vostra fede con dorate promesse e voi a loro rendeste ricchezze e potenza e gloria. Io vi ho dato meno di una promessa, eppure siete stati con me più generosi: Mi avete dato la più profonda sete di vita futura. Certo non vi è dono più grande per un uomo di ciò che muta ogni proposito in labbra ardenti e tutta la vita in una fonte. E in questo sta il mio onore e la mia ricompensa: Vengo a bere a una fonte e trovo l'acqua viva essa stessa assetata; E mentre io bevo l'acqua mi beve. Qualcuno tra voi mi ha stimato superbo e troppo schivo per ricevere doni. In verità sono troppo superbo per accettare compensi, ma non doni. E sebbene abbia mangiato bacche sulle colline quando mi avreste invitato alla vostra mensa, E dormito sotto il portico del tempio quando mi avreste dato asilo con gioia, Non è stata forse la vostra amorevole preoccupazione per i miei giorni e le mie notti a rendere il cibo dolce alla mia bocca e a circondare il mio sonno di visioni ? Per tutto questo io vi benedico ancora. Voi date molto e lo ignorate: In verità la bontà che si ammira allo specchio si tramuta in pietra, E una buona azione che si compiace di sé stessa genera una maledizione. E alcuni di voi mi hanno giudicato distante ed ebbro della mia solitudine, E hanno detto, "Lui tiene consiglio con gli alberi della foresta, ma non con gli uomini. Siede solitario sulle cime dei monti e guarda dall'alto la nostra città". E' vero, ho scalato montagne e ho camminato in luoghi remoti. Ma come avrei potuto vedervi se non da una grande altitudine o da una grande distanza ? In verità, come si può essere vicini se non si conosce la lontananza ? E altri tra voi si sono tacitamente rivolti a me pronunziando queste parole: "Straniero, straniero, amante di irraggiungibili altezze, perché vivi sulle cime dove le aquile costruiscono il loro nido ? Perché cerchi l'impossibile ? Quali tempeste vorresti carpire ? E quali uccelli chimerici insegui nel cielo ? Vieni, e sii uno di noi. Scendi, placa la tua fame col nostro pane e spegni la tua sete col nostro vino". Nella solitudine dell'anima questo hanno detto; Ma se la loro solitudine fosse stata più profonda avrebbero capito che ricercavo soltanto il segreto della vostra gioia e della vostra pena, E che inseguivo soltanto la vostra essenza più vasta che si libra nel cielo. Ma il cacciatore è stato anche la preda; Molte frecce hanno lasciato il mio arco solo per mirare al mio petto. E il volatile è stato anche il rettile; Quando le mie ali si dispiegavano al sole, la loro ombra sulla terra era una tartaruga. E io, il credente, sono stato anche lo scettico, Poiché sovente ho messo il dito nella mia stessa piaga, per avere di voi la conoscenza e la fede più profonde. Ed è con questa fede e questa conoscenza che io dico, Voi non siete rinchiusi nel vostro corpo, né confinati nelle case o nei campi. Ciò che voi siete ha la sua dimora tra le montagne ed erra nel vento. E non è qualcosa che striscia al sole per scaldarsi o scava buche nel buio per trovare rifugio. Ma qualcosa di libero, uno spirito che avvolge la terra e muove nell'etere. Se queste sono parole vaghe, non cercate di chiarirle. Vago e nebuloso è l'inizio di ogni cosa, ma non la sua fine. E vorrei che mi ricordaste come un inizio. La vita, e tutto ciò che vive, è concepito nella nebbia e non nel cristallo. E chissà se il cristallo non è la nebbia che si dilegua ? Nel ricordarmi, non scordatevi di questo: Ciò che in voi sembra più fragile e confuso, è invece più forte e determinato. Non è forse il respiro che ha eretto e temprato la vostra struttura ? E non è forse un sogno che nessuno di voi ricorda di aver sognato, ciò che ha edificato la vostra città e modellato ogni cosa in essa ? Se solo poteste vedere il flusso di questo respiro, non vorreste vedere nient'altro. E se solo poteste udire il sussurro di questo sogno, non vorreste ascoltare suono diverso. Ma voi non vedete né udite, e questo è bene. Il velo che offusca i vostri occhi sarà sollevato dalla mano che lo ha tessuto, E la creta che ostruisce le vostre orecchie sarà rimossa dalle dita che l'hanno impastata. E voi vedrete. E voi udirete. Ma non rimpiangerete di aver conosciuto la cecità, né di essere stati sordi. Poiché in quel giorno conoscerete il fine nascosto. E benedirete l'oscurità come avreste benedetto la luce. Dette queste cose si guardò intorno e vide il timoniere in piedi vicino alla sbarra scrutare ora le vele gonfie ora l'orizzonte. E disse: Paziente, troppo paziente è il capitano della mia nave. Il vento soffia e le vele sono inquiete; Anche il timone implora la sua rotta; Tuttavia il mio capitano ha atteso con calma il mio silenzio. E questi miei marinai, che già udivano il coro del mare aperto, hanno saputo ascoltarmi pazienti. Non aspetteranno più a lungo. Sono pronto. Il fiume ha raggiunto il mare, e ancora una volta la grande madre accoglie il figlio nel suo grembo. Addio, popolo d'Orfalese. Questo giorno è finito. Si chiude su di noi come il giglio acquatico sul suo domani. Serberemo quello che qui ci è stato donato, E se non sarà sufficiente, ci ricongiungeremo per tendere ancora le mani verso colui che dà. Tornerò a voi, non dimenticatemi. Sarà tra breve, e il mio anelito raccoglierà polvere e saliva per un altro corpo. Sarà tra breve, un attimo di calma nel vento e un'altra donna mi partorirà. Addio a voi e alla giovinezza trascorsa con voi. Appena ieri ci incontrammo. Voi avete cantato per me nella mia solitudine e io ho costruito una torre nel cielo con i vostri desideri. Ma ora il nostro sogno è finito, è volato via il sonno e non è più l'alba. Il mattino volge al termine, il nostro dormiveglia si è trasformato nella pienezza del giorno, e dobbiamo separarci. Se ancora una volta ci incontreremo nel crepuscolo della memoria, parleremo nuovamente insieme, e il canto che voi intonerete sarà allora più profondo. E se le nostre mani si toccheranno in un altro sogno, costruiremo un'altra torre nel cielo. Così dicendo fece un segnale ai marinai e subito essi levarono le ancore e, liberata la nave dagli ormeggi, salparono verso oriente. E un grido venne dal popolo come da un solo cuore, salì nel crepuscolo e dal mare fu portato lontano come uno squillo di tromba. Solo Almitra rimase in silenzio fissando la nave fino a che scomparve nella foschia. E quando tutto il popolo si disperse lei restò sola sul molo mentre nel suo cuore riaffioravano le parole: "Sarà tra breve, un attimo di calma nel vento, e un'altra donna mi partorirà".<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-839365521512340317?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-56544122131832432722009-05-20T09:52:00.003-07:002009-05-20T09:52:56.430-07:00Allora Almitra parlò dicendo: Ora vorremmo chiederti della Morte. E lui disse: Voi vorreste conoscere il segreto della morte. ma come potrete scoprirlo se non cercandolo nel cuore della vita ? Il gufo, i cui occhi notturni sono ciechi al giorno, non può svelare il mistero della luce. Se davvero volete conoscere lo spirito della morte, spalancate il vostro cuore al corpo della vita. poiché la vita e la morte sono una cosa sola, come una sola cosa sono il fiume e il mare. Nella profondità dei vostri desideri e speranze, sta la vostra muta conoscenza di ciò che è oltre la vita; E come i semi sognano sotto la neve, il vostro cuore sogna la primavera. confidate nei sogni, poiché in essi si cela la porta dell'eternità. La vostra paura della morte non è che il tremito del pastore davanti al re che posa la mano su di lui in segno di onore. In questo suo fremere, il pastore non è forse pieno di gioia poiché porterà l'impronta regale ? E tuttavia non è forse maggiormente assillato dal suo tremito ? Che cos'è morire, se non stare nudi nel vento e disciogliersi al sole ? E che cos'è emettere l'estremo respiro se non liberarlo dal suo incessante fluire, così che possa risorgere e spaziare libero alla ricerca di Dio ? Solo se berrete al fiume del silenzio, potrete davvero cantare. E quando avrete raggiunto la vetta del monte, allora incomincerete a salire. E quando la terra esigerà il vostro corpo, allora danzerete realmente.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-5654412213183243272?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-28639442731748943172009-05-20T09:52:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:52:30.954-07:00E un vecchio sacerdote disse: Parlaci della Religione. E lui rispose: Ho forse parlato d'altro oggi? Non è forse la religione ogni azione e ogni riflessione, E ciò che non è né azione né riflessione, ma stupore e sorpresa che sempre scaturiscono nell'anima, anche quando le mani spaccano la pietra o tendono il telaio ? Chi può separare la sua fede dalle sue azioni e il suo credo dal suo lavoro ? Chi può disporre davanti a sé le proprie ore dicendo, "Questa è per Dio e questa è per me stesso, questa è per la mia anima e questa per il mio corpo ?". Tutte le vostre ore sono battiti d'ali nello spazio da un essere all'altro. Colui che indossa la moralità come l'abito migliore, sarebbe meglio stesse nudo. Il vento e il sole non squarceranno la sua pelle. E colui che fa dell'etica un limite al comportamento, ingabbia il suo canto. Il canto più libero non passa tra fili e sbarre. E colui per il quale l'adorazione è una finestra che si apre e si chiude, non ha ancora visitato la dimora della sua anima le cui finestre sono aperte da aurora a aurora. La vita quotidiana è il vostro tempio e la vostra religione. Ogni volta che vi entrate portate con voi tutto il vostro essere. Portate l'aratro, la fucina, il martello e il liuto, Le cose forgiate per bisogno o per diletto. Poiché nella devozione non potrete elevarvi al di sopra delle vostre riuscite, né cadere più in basso dei vostri fallimenti. E prendete con voi tutti gli uomini, poiché nell'adorazione non potete volare più in alto delle vostre speranze, né umiliarvi oltre la loro disperazione. Se volete conoscere Dio, non siate dunque solutori di enigmi. Piuttosto guardatevi intorno e vedrete Dio giocare con i vostri bambini. Guardate nello spazio, e vedrete Dio camminare sulla nube, aprire le braccia nel lampo e scendere nella pioggia. Vedrete Dio sorridere nei fiori e nelle cime degli alberi vedrete il fremito delle sue mani.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2863944273174894317?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-15815391099605398102009-05-20T09:51:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:51:57.579-07:00E un poeta disse: Parlaci della Bellezza. E lui rispose: Dove cercherete e come scoprirete la bellezza, se essa stessa non vi è di sentiero e di guida ? E come potrete parlarne, se non è la tessitrice del vostro discorso ? L'afflitto e l'offeso dicono: "La bellezza è nobile e indulgente. Cammina tra noi come una giovane madre confusa dalla sua stesa gloria". E l'appassionato dice: "No, la bellezza è temibile e possente. Come la tempesta, scuote la terra sotto di noi e il cielo che ci sovrasta". Lo stanco e l'annoiato dicono: "La bellezza è un lieve bisbiglio. Parla del nostro spirito. La sua voce cede ai nostri silenzi come una debole luce che trema spaurita dall'ombra". Ma l'inquieto dice: "Abbiamo udito il suo grido tra le montagne, E con questo grido ci sono giunti strepito di zoccoli, battiti d'ali e ruggiti di leoni". Di notte le guardie della città dicono: "La bellezza sorgerà con l'alba da oriente". E al meriggio colui che lavora e il viandante dicono: "L'abbiamo vista affacciarsi sulla terra dalle finestre del tramonto". D'inverno, chi è isolato dalla neve dice: "Verrà con la primavera balzando di colle in colle". E nella calura estiva il mietitore dice: "L'abbiamo vista danzare con le foglie dell'autunno e con la folata di neve nei capelli". Tutte queste cose avete detto della bellezza, Tuttavia non avete parlato di lei, ma di bisogni insoddisfatti. E la bellezza non è un bisogno, ma un'estasi. Non è una bocca assetata, né una mano vuota protesa, Ma piuttosto un cuore bruciante e un'anima incantata. Non è un'immagine che vorreste vedere né un canto che vorreste udire, Ma piuttosto un'immagine che vedete con gli occhi chiusi, e un canto che udite con le orecchie serrate. Non è la linfa nel solco della corteccia, né l'ala congiunta all'artiglio, Ma piuttosto un giardino perennemente in fiore e uno stormo d'angeli eternamente in volo. Popolo di Orfalese, la bellezza è la vita, quando la vita disvela il suo volto sacro. Ma voi siete la vita e siete il velo. La bellezza è l'eternità che si contempla in uno specchio. Ma voi siete l'eternità e siete lo specchio.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-1581539109960539810?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-75687272623479605762009-05-20T09:50:00.002-07:002009-05-20T09:51:26.402-07:00Allora un eremita, che visitava la città una volta l'anno, si fece avanti e disse: Parlaci del Piacere. E lui rispose dicendo: Il piacere è un canto di libertà, Ma non è libertà. E' la fioritura dei vostri desideri, Ma non il loro frutto. E' un abisso che esorta alla scesa, Ma non è profondo né alto. E' un uccello in gabbia che si alza in volo, Ma non è lo spazio conquistato. Sì, francamente, il piacere è un canto di libertà. E io vorrei che lo intonaste in tutta pienezza, ma temo che a cantarlo perdereste il cuore. Alcuni giovani tra voi ricercano il piacere come se fosse tutto, e vengono giudicati e biasimati. Non vorrei né giudicarli né biasimarli. Vorrei che cercassero. E troveranno non solo il piacere, Poiché il piacere ha sette fratelli, e il minore è più bello dello stesso piacere. Non avete udito di quell'uomo che, scavando la terra in cerca di radici, scoprì un tesoro ? E alcuni anziani tra voi ricordano con rimpianto i piaceri, come errori compiuti nell'ebbrezza. Ma il rimpianto è l'oscurità della mente, e non il suo castigo. Essi dovrebbero ricordare i loro piaceri riconoscenti come per il raccolto di un'estate. Ma se il rimpianto li conforta, si confortino pure. E tra voi vi sono quelli non così giovani per cercare, né così vecchi per ricordare. E nella paura di cercare e ricordare, essi fuggono ogni piacer temendo di umiliare e offendere l'anima. Ma proprio in questo è il loro piacere. E in tal modo scoprono tesori, sebbene scavino radici con mano tremante. Ma ditemi, chi può offendere lo spirito ? L'usignolo offende il silenzio della notte, o la lucciola le stelle ? E la vostra fiamma o il vostro fumo mortificano il vento ? Pensate forse di poter turbare lo spirito come con un bastone uno stagno tranquillo ? Spesso, negandovi al piacere, non fate altro che respingere il desiderio nei recessi del vostro essere. Chissà che non vi attenda domani ciò che oggi avete negato. Anche il vostro corpo conosce la sua ricchezza e il suo legittimo bisogno, e non permette inganno. Il corpo è l'arpa della vostra anima, E sta a voi trarne musica armoniosa o confusi suoni. E ora domandatevi in cuore: "Come potremo distinguere il buono dal cattivo nel piacere ?". Andate nei vostri campi e giardini, e imparerete che il piacere dell'ape è raccogliere il nettare del fiore, E che il piacere del fiore è conceder all'ape il suo nettare. Poiché il fiore per l'ape è una fonte di vita, E l'ape per il fiore è una messaggera d'amore. E per l'ape e per il fiore donarsi e ricevere piacere è a un tempo necessita ed estasi. Popolo di Orfalese, nel piacere siate come le api e come i fiori.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-7568727262347960576?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-22759533651101622012009-05-20T09:50:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:50:49.350-07:00Allora una sacerdotessa disse: Parlaci della Preghiera. E lui rispose dicendo: Voi pregate nell'angoscia e nel bisogno, ma dovreste pregare anche nella pienezza della gioia e nei giorni dell'abbondanza. Perché non è forse la preghiera l'espansione di voi stessi nell'etere vivente ? Se riversare la vostra notte nello spazio vi conforta, è gioia anche esprimere l'alba del vostro cuore. E se non potete fare a meno di piangere quando l'anima vi chiama alla preghiera, essa dovrebbe spingervi sempre e ancora al sorriso. Pregando vi innalzate sino a incontrare nell'aria coloro che pregano nello stesso istante, e non potete incontrarli che nella preghiera. Perciò la visita a questo tempio invisibile non sia altro che estasi e dolce comunione. Giacche se entrate nel tempio soltanto per chiedere, voi non avrete. E se entrate per umiliarvi, non sarete innalzati. O se entrate a supplicare per il bene altrui, non sarete ascoltati. Entrare nel tempio invisibile è sufficiente. Con la parola io non posso insegnarvi a pregare. Dio non ascolta le vostre parole, se non le pronuncia egli stesso attraverso le vostre labbra. E io non posso insegnarvi la preghiera dei monti, dei mari e delle foreste. Ma voi, nati dalle foreste, dai monti e dai mari, potete scoprire le loro preghiere nel vostro cuore, E se solo tendete l'orecchio nella quiete della notte, udrete nel silenzio: "Dio nostro, ala di noi stessi, noi vogliamo secondo la tua volontà. Desideriamo secondo il tuo desiderio. Il tuo impero trasforma le nostre notti, che sono le tue notti, in giorni che sono i tuoi giorni. Nulla possiamo chiederti, perché tu conosci i nostri bisogni prima ancora che nascano in noi. Tu sei il nostro bisogno, e nel donarci più di te stesso, tutto ci doni".<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-2275953365110162201?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-37862604305923427772009-05-20T09:49:00.002-07:002009-05-20T09:50:18.085-07:00E un anziano della città disse: Parlaci del Bene e del Male. E lui rispose: Io posso parlare del bene che è in voi, ma non del male. Poiché il cattivo non è che il buono torturato dalla fame e dalla sete. In verità, quando il buono è affamato cerca cibo anche in una caverna buia e quando è assetato beve anche acqua morta. Siete buoni quando siete in armonia con voi stessi. Tuttavia, quando non siete una sola cosa con voi stessi, voi non siete cattivi. Una casa divisa non è un covo di ladri, è semplicemente una casa divisa. E una nave senza timone può errare senza meta tra isole pericolose senza fare naufragio. Siete buoni nello sforzo di donare voi stessi, Tuttavia non siete cattivi quando perseguite il vostro vantaggio. Quando cercate di ottenere, non siete che una radice avvinghiata alla terra per succhiarne il seno. Certo, il frutto non può dire alla radice: "Sii come me, maturo e pieno e sempre generoso della tua abbondanza". Poiché come il frutto ha bisogno di dare, così la radice ha bisogno di ricevere. Siete buoni quando la vostra parola è pienamente consapevole. Tuttavia non siete cattivi quando nel sonno la vostra lingua vaneggia. E anche un discorso confuso può rafforzare una debole lingua. Siete buoni quando procedete verso la meta, decisi e con passo sicuro. Tuttavia non siete cattivi quando vagate qua e là zoppicando. Anche chi zoppica procede in avanti. Ma vi è agile e forte, non zoppichi davanti allo zoppo stimandosi cortese. Voi siete buoni in molteplici modi e non siete cattivi quando non siete buoni. Siete soltanto pigri e indolenti. Purtroppo il cervo non può insegnare alla tartaruga ad essere veloce. Nel desiderio del gigante che è in voi risiede la vostra bontà, e questo è un desiderio di tutti. In alcuni è un torrente che scorre impetuoso verso il mare, trascinando con sé i segreti delle colline e il canto delle foreste. In altri è una corrente placida che si perde in declivi e indugia prima di raggiungere la sponda. Ma chi desidera molto non dica a chi desidera poco: "Perché esiti e indugi ?". Poiché, in verità, chi è buono non chiede a chi è nudo: "Dov'è il tuo vestito ?", né a chi è senza tetto: "Cos'è accaduto alla tua casa ?".<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3786260430592342777?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-30042438195827078452009-05-20T09:49:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:49:43.301-07:00E un astronomo disse: Maestro Parlaci del Tempo. E lui rispose: Vorreste misurare il tempo, l'incommensurabile e l'immenso. Vorreste regolare il vostro comportamento e dirigere il corso del vostro spirito secondo le ore e le stagioni. Del tempo vorreste fare un fiume per sostate presso la sua riva e guardarlo fluire. Ma l'eterno che è in voi sa che la vita è senza tempo E sa che l'oggi non è che il ricordo di ieri, e il domani il sogno di oggi. E ciò che in voi è canto e contemplazione dimora quieto entro i confini di quel primo attimo in cui le stelle furono disseminate nello spazio. Chi di voi non sente che la sua forza d'amore è sconfinata ? E chi non sente che questo autentico amore, benché sconfinato, è racchiuso nel centro del proprio essere, e non passa da pensiero d'amore a pensiero d'amore, né da atto d'amore ad atto d'amore ? E non è forse il tempo, così come l'amore, indiviso e immoto ? Ma se col pensiero volete misurare il tempo in stagioni, fate che ogni stagione racchiuda tutte le altre, E che il presente abbracci il passato con il ricordo, e il futuro con l'attesa.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3004243819582707845?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-48503950239802684942009-05-20T09:48:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:49:14.215-07:00E allora uno studioso disse: Spiegaci la Parola. E lui rispose dicendo: Voi parlate quando avete perduto la pace con i vostri pensieri; E quando non potete più sopportare la solitudine del cuore voi vivete sulle labbra, e il suono vi è di svago e passatempo. E molte delle vostre parole quasi uccidono il pensiero, Poiché il pensiero è un uccello leggero che in una gabbia di parole può spiegare le ali, ma non prendere il volo. Tra voi vi sono quelli che cercano uomini loquaci per timore di restare soli. Il silenzio della solitudine mette a nudo il loro essere, ed essi vorrebbero fuggirlo. E vis ono quelli che, senza consapevolezza o prudenza parlano di verità che non comprendono. E quelli invece che hanno dentro di sé la verità, ma non la esprimono in parole. nel loro petto lo spirito dimora in armonico silenzio. Quando per strada o sulla piazza del mercato incontrate un amico, lasciate che lo spirito vi muova le labbra e vi guidi la lingua. Lasciate che la voce della vostra voce parli all'orecchio del suo orecchio; Poiché custodirà nell'anima la verità del vostro cuore come si ricorda il sapore del vino. Quando il colore è dimenticato e la coppa è perduta.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-4850395023980268494?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-35725070177757462612009-05-20T09:47:00.002-07:002009-05-20T09:48:32.885-07:00E un adolescente disse: Parlaci dell'Amicizia. E lui rispose dicendo: Il vostro amico è il vostro bisogno saziato. E' il campo che seminate con amore e mietete con riconoscenza. E' la vostra mensa e il vostro focolare. Poiché, affamati, vi rifugiate in lui e lo ricercate per la vostra pace. Quando l'amico vi confida il suo pensiero, non negategli la vostra approvazione, né abbiate paura di contraddirlo. E quando tace, il vostro cuore non smetta di ascoltare il suo cuore: Nell'amicizia ogni pensiero, ogni desiderio, ogni attesa nasce in silenzio e viene condiviso con inesprimibile gioia. Quando vi separate dall'amico non rattristatevi: La sua assenza può chiarirvi ciò che in lui più amate, come allo scalatore la montagna è più chiara della pianura. E non vi sia nell'amicizia altro scopo che l'approfondimento dello spirito. Poiché l'amore che non cerca in tutti i modi lo schiudersi del proprio mistero non è amore, ma una rete lanciata in avanti e che afferra solo ciò che è vano. E il meglio di voi sia per l'amico vostro. Se lui dovrà conoscere il riflusso della vostra marea, fate che ne conosca anche la piena. Quale amico è il vostro, per cercarlo nelle ore di morte ? Cercatelo sempre nelle ore di vita. Poiché lui può colmare ogni vostro bisogno, ma non il vostro vuoto. E condividete i piaceri sorridendo nella dolcezza dell'amicizia. Poiché nella rugiada delle piccole cose il cuore ritrova il suo mattino e si ristora.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6123569086695649202-3572507017775746261?l=gibran-khalil-gibran.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Lefkoi Lykoi ( Liza G.A.)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15523493327381389685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6123569086695649202.post-55143744543727389332009-05-20T09:47:00.001-07:002009-05-20T09:47:56.527-07:00E un maestro disse: Parlaci dell'Insegnamento. E lui disse: Nessuno può insegnarvi nulla se non ciò che già sonnecchia nell'albeggiare della vostra conoscenza. Il maestro che cammina all'ombra del tempio tra i discepoli non elargisce la sua sapienza, ma piuttosto la sua fede e il suo amore. E se davvero è saggio, non vi invita ad entrare nella dimora del suo sapere, ma vi guida alla soglia della vostra mente. L'astronomo può dirvi ciò che sa degli spazi, ma non può darvi la sua conoscenza. Il musico può cantarvi la melodia che è nell'aria, ma non può darvi l'orecchio che fissa il ritmo, né l'eco che rimanda il suono. E colui che è esperto nella scienza dei numeri può descrivervi il mondo del peso e della misura, ma oltre non può condurvi. Poiché la visione di un uomo non presta le proprie ali