Or a group or party revolts against a despotic government and advocates political reforms to free the oppressed from their shackles. They distribute manifestoes and deliver fiery speeches and publish stinging articles. But a month later, we hear that the government has either imprisoned the leader or silenced him by giving him an important position. And nothing more is heard.
Or a sect rebels against its religious leader, accusing him of misdeeds and threatening to adopt another religion, more humane and free of superstition. But shortly we hear that the wise men of the country have reconciled the shepherd and the flock, through the application of social narcotics.
When a weak man complains of oppression by a strong, his neighbor will quieten him, “Hush, the eye of the stubborn seer cannot withstand the blow of the spear.”
When a villager doubts the holiness of the priest, he will be told, “Listen only to his teaching and disregard his shortcomings and misdeeds.”
When a teacher rebukes a student, he will say, “The excuses that a lazy youth invents are often worse than the crime.”
If a daughter refuses to adhere to her mother’s customs, the mother will say, “The daughter is not better than the mother; she should follow in her mother’s footsteps.”
Should a young man ask a priest to enlighten him about an ancient rite, the preacher will reprove him, “Son, he who does not look at religion with the eyes of Faith, will see nothing save mist and smoke.”
Thus the Orient lies upon its soft bed. The sleeper wakes for an instant when stung by a flea, and then resumes his narcotic slumber.
Whoever tries to awaken him is berated as a rude person who neither sleeps himself nor lets others sleep. Shutting their eyes again, they whisper into the ears of their souls, “He is an infidel poisoning the mind of the youths and undermining the foundation of the ages.”
Many times I have asked my soul, “Am I one of those awakened rebels who reject narcotics?” And my soul answered with cryptic words. But hearing my name and principles reviled, I was assured that I was awake and could count myself among those who do not surrender themselves to pipe dreams, that I belong with the strong-hearted who walk narrow and thorny paths where flowers are also to be found, amidst howling wolves—and singing nightingales.
If awakening were a virtue, modesty would prevent me from claiming it. But it is not a virtue, but a reality that appears suddenly to those who have the strength to rise. To be modest in speaking truth is hypocrisy. Alas that the people of the Orient call it education.
I will not be surprised if the “thinkers” say of me, “He is a man of excess who looks upon life’s seamy side and reports nothing but gloom and lamentation.”
To them I declare, “I deplore our Oriental urge to evade the reality of weakness and sorrow.
“I grieve that my beloved country sings, not in joy, but to still the quakings of fear.
“In battling evil, excess is good; for he who is moderate in announcing the truth is presenting half-truth. He conceals the other half out of fear of the people’s wrath.
“I loathe the carrion mind; its stench upsets my stomach. I will not serve it with sweets and cordials.
“Yet I will gladly exchange my outcries for cheerful laughter, speak eulogies instead of indictments, replace excess with moderation, provided you show me a just governor, a lawyer of integrity, a religious hierarch who practices what he preaches, a husband who looks upon his wife with the same eyes as he looks upon himself.
“If you prefer me to dance, to blow the trumpet or beat the drum, invite me to a wedding feast and lead me out of the graveyard.”
The Giants
We live in an era whose humblest men are becoming greater than the greatest men of preceding ages. What once preoccupied our minds is now of no consequence. The veil of indifference covers it. The beautiful dreams that once hovered in our consciousness have been dispersed like mist. In their place are giants moving like tempests, raging like seas, breathing like volcanoes.
What destiny will the giants bring the world at the end of their struggles?
Will the farmer return to his field to sow where Death has planted the bones of the dead?
Will the shepherd pasture his flock on fields mown by the sword?
Will the sheep drink from springs whose waters are stained with blood?
Will the worshipper kneel in a profaned temple at whose altars Satanists have danced?
Will the poet compose his songs under stars veiled in gun smoke?
Will the musician strum his lute in a night whose silence was ravished by terror?
Will the mother at the cradle of her infant, brooding on the perils of tomorrow, be able to sing a lullaby?
Can lovers meet and exchange kisses on battlefields still acrid with bomb fumes?
Will Nisan* ever return to earth and dress the earth’s wounds with its garment?
What will be the destiny of your country and mine? Which giant shall seize the mountains and valleys that produced us and reared us and made us men and women before the face of the sun?
Will Syria remain lying between the wolf lair and the pigsty? Or will it move with the tempest to the lion’s den or soar to the eagle’s eyrie?
Will the dawn of a new Time ever appear over Lebanon’s peaks?
Every time I am alone I ask my soul these questions. But my soul is mute like Destiny.
Which one of you, people, does not ponder day and night on the fate of the world under the rule of the giants intoxicated with the tears of widows and orphans?
I am among those who believe in the Law of Evolution; I believe that ideal entities evolve, like brute beings, and that religions and governments are raised to higher planes.
The law of evolution has a severe and oppressive countenance and those of limited or fearful mind dread it; but its principles are just, and those who study them become enlightened. Through its Reason men are raised above themselves and can approach the sublime.
All around me are dwarves who see the giants emerging; and the dwarves croak like frogs:
“The world has returned to savagery. What science and education have created is being destroyed by the new primitives. We are now like the prehistoric cave dwellers. Nothing distinguishes us from them save our machines of destruction and our improved techniques of slaughter.”
Thus speak those who measure the world’s conscience by their own. They measure the range of all Existence by the tiny span of their individual being. As if the sun did not exist but for their warmth, as if the sea was created for them to wash their feet.
From the heart of life, from deep within the universe where the secrets of Creation are stored, the giants rise like winds and ascend like clouds, and convene like mountains. In their struggles age-old problems are being brought to solution.
But man, in spite of all his knowledge and skills, and notwithstanding the love and hatred in his heart, and the torments he endures, is but a tool in the hands of the giants, to reach their goal and accomplish their inevitable high purpose.
The streams of blood shall some day become flowing rivers of wine; and the tears that bedewed the earth shall bring forth aromatic flowers; and the souls that left their abodes shall assemble and appear from behind the new horizon as a new Morn. Then man will realize that he had bought Justice and Reason in the slave market. He will understand that he who works and spends for the sake of Right will never lose.
Nisan shall come, but he who seeks Nisan without Winter’s aid, will never find it.
* The month of April.
Out of Earth
Wrathfully and violently earth comes out of earth;
and gracefully and majestically earth walks over
earth.
Earth from earth, builds palaces and erects towers
and temples,
And earth weaves on earth, legends, doctrines, and
laws.
Then earth becomes tired of the deeds of earth and
wreathes from its halo, dreams and
fantasies.
And earth’s eyes are then beguiled by earth’s slumber
to enduring rest.
And earth calls unto earth:
“I am the womb and the sepulchre, and I shall
remain a womb and a sepulchre until the planets
exist no more and the sun turns into ashes.
O Night
O Night of lovers, inspirer of poets and singers,
O Night of phantoms, of spirits and fancies,
O Night of longing, of hopes and memories,
You are like a giant dwarfing the evening clouds
and towering over the dawn.
With the sword of fear you are armed, and with
the shining moon you are crowned, and with calm
and silence you are veiled.
With a thousand eyes you penetrate the depth
of life,
With a thousand ears you hear the moan
of death and non-existence.
The light of heaven shines through your darkness,
For Day is but light overwhelming us with the
obscurity of the earth.
Before the awe of eternity you open our eyes and
give us hope,
For Day is a deceiver that blinds us
with measures and quantities.
You are perfect silence revealing the secrets of
the awakened spirits in heaven,
But day is an uproar agitating the souls that
lie between the hooves of purpose and wonder.
You are Justice that brings unto the haven of
slumber the dreams of the weak, that they may be united
with the hopes of the strong.
You are a merciful monarch who closes with his
fingers of enchantment the eyes of the miserable,
and conveys their hearts into a gentler realm.
The lovers’ spirits find refuge between the folds of
your blue garment,
And upon your feet, drenched with dew, the
forlorn shed their tears.
In the palms of your hands, where lies the fragrance
of the valleys, strangers find ease for their
yearnings.
You are the companion of lovers; you console the
desolate; you shelter the alien and the lonely.
In your shadow the poet’s affections rest, and
the hearts of the prophets awaken,
And under your crown the
wisdom of the thinker takes form.
You inspire poets; you bring revelation to the
prophets; you instruct the philosophers.
When my soul wearies of humanity, when my
eyes tire of staring into the face of the day,
I wander where the phantoms
of past ages sleep.
There I pause before a dim presence who strode
with a thousand feet over the earth, setting it
atremble.
There I look into the eyes of shadow, and
listen to the rustle of invisible wings, and feel
the soft touch of the unseen garment of silence,
and withstand the terrors of black darkness.
There I see you, Night, awful and beautiful,
poised between heaven and earth, veiled in
mist, cloaked in cloud, laughing at
the sun, ridiculing the day, taunting the slaves
who sleeplessly worship before the idols.
I see your wrath against kings sleeping upon beds of
velvet and silk;
I see thieves flinching before your vigilant gaze as
you guard the babes in slumber;
I see you weeping over the forced smiles of prostitutes
and smiling over tears of true lovers;
I see your right hand raising up the good and your
feet trampling the wicked.
There, I see you and you see me, Night. And though
terrible, you are like a father to me, and I,
dreaming, envision myself as your son.
The screen of distrust has been removed
from between us, and you reveal to me
your secrets and designs.
And I disclose to you my hopes and my desires.
Your terrors have turned into a melody sweeter and
more soothing to the heart than the whisper of the
flowers.
My fears are vanished and I am more tranquil
than birds.
You have lifted me unto you and held me between
your arms and taught my eyes to see, and my ears
to hear, and my lips to speak, and my heart to
love that which others hate, and to hate that
which others love.
You touch my thoughts with your
gentle fingers, and my contemplation flows like
a strong stream.
With your burning lips you print a kiss
upon the lips of my soul
and set it aflame like a torch.
I have accompanied you, O Night, and followed you
until we became akin.
I loved you until my being became a diminutive image
of your being.
In my dark self are glittering stars strewn
by my emotions.
And in my heart shines a moon lighting the processions
of my dreams.
In my sleepless soul a silence reveals
the lover’s secrets and echoes the
worshipper’s prayers,
And my face wears a magic mask. Torn by
the agony of death, it is mended by the songs of youth.
We are both alike in every way, Night.
Will man consider me boastful if I liken myself
unto you?
Does not man boast of his resemblance to the day?
I am like you, Night, and we are both accused of
being what we are not.
I am like you even though twilight does not crown me
with its golden clouds.
I am like you although morn does not adorn the
hem of my garment with its rosy rays.
I am like you though I am not encircled by the milky
way.
I am night boundless and calm; there is no beginning
to my obscurity and no end to my depth.
When the souls rise in the
light of their joy, my soul ascends glorified by the
dark of grief.
I am like you, Night! And when my morn comes, then
my time will end.
Earth
How beautiful you are, Earth, and how sublime!
How perfect is your obedience to the light, and
how noble is your submission to the sun!
How lovely you are, veiled in shadow, and how
charming your face, masked with obscurity!
How soothing is the song of your dawn, and how
harsh are the praises of your eventide!
How perfect you are, Earth, and how majestic!
I have walked over your plains, I have climbed your
stony mountains; I have descended into your valleys;
I have entered into your caves.
In the plains, I found your dream; upon the mountain
I found your pride; in the valley I witnessed your
tranquility; in the rocks your resolution; in the
cave your secrecy.
You are weak and powerful and humble and haughty.
You are pliant and rigid, and clear and secret.
I have ridden your seas and explored your rivers and
followed your brooks.
I heard Eternity speak through your ebb and flow,
and the ages echoing your songs among your hills.
I listened to life calling to life in your mountain
passes and along your slopes.
You are the mouth and lips of Ete
rnity, the strings
and fingers of Time, the mystery and solution of
Life.
Your Spring has awakened me and led me to your fields
where your aromatic breath ascends like
incense.
I have seen the fruits of your Summer labor.
In Autumn, in your vineyards, I saw your
blood flow as wine.
Your Winter carried me into your bed, where the snow
attested your purity.
In your Spring you are an aromatic essence; in your
Summer you are generous; in your Autumn you are
a source of plenty.
One calm and clear night I opened the windows and
doors of my soul and went out to see you, my
heart tense with lust and greed.
And I saw you staring at the stars that smiled at
you. So I cast away my fetters, for I
found out that the dwelling place of the soul is in
your space.
Its desires grow in your desires; its peace rests in
your peace; and its happiness is in the golden
dust which the stars sprinkle upon your body.
One night, as the skies turned gray, and my soul was
wearied and anxious, I went out to you.
And you appeared to me like a giant, armed with
raging tempests, fighting the past with the present,
replacing the old with the new, and letting the
strong disperse the weak.
Whereupon I learned that the law of the people is
your law.
I learned that he who does not break his dry branches
with his tempest, will die wearily,
And he who does not use revolution, to strip
his dry leaves, will slowly perish.
How generous you are, Earth, and how strong is your
yearning for your children lost between that which
they have attained and that which they could not
obtain.
We clamor and you smile; we flit
but you stay!
We blaspheme and you consecrate.
We defile and you sanctify.
We sleep without dreams; but you
dream in your eternal wakefulness.
We pierce your bosom with swords and spears,
And you dress our wounds with oil and balsam.
We plant your fields with skulls and bones,