Freedom

 

 Tommy Ingberg

 

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 fulfilment.

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 your eyes.

And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free?

If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead.

You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them.

And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed.

For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride?

And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you.

And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.

Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape.

These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling.

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light.

And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.

Khalil Gibran

 

On Houses

 Eric Kim

 

Then a mason came forth and said, 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 a grove or hill-top?

     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.

     And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

     Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

     Have you rememberances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

     Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

     Tell me, have you these in your houses?

     Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

     Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

     Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

     It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

     It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

     Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

     But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

     Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

     It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

     You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

     You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

     And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

     For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Kahlil Gibran

in, The Prophet 

 

The Coming of the Ship

 

StockCake

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto 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 his 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 as 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 of his pain and his aloneness without regret?

     Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered 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 burden and an ache.

     It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

     Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

     Yet I cannot tarry longer.

     The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.

     For, to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

     Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

     A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

     And along and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun

     Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbor, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

     And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

     Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,

     How often have you sailed in my dreams. and now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

     Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

     Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,

     And then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

     And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,

     Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,

     Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,

     And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

     And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

     And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

     And he said to himself:

     Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

     And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

     And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

     Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?

     And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?

     Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me

     A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

     If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unremembered seasons?

     If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.

     Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,

     And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.

     These things he said in words But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

     And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice.

     And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

     Go not yet away from us.

     A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.

     No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our sun and our dearly beloved.

     Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.

     And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:

     Let not the waves of the sea separates us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

     You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

     Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.

     Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

     And ever has it been  that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

     And others came also and entreated him. But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.

     And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple.

     And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.

     And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.

     And she hailed him, saying:

     Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship.

     And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

     Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

     Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth.

     And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

     In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

     Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.

     And he answered,

     People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?

Kahlil Gibran 

in, The Prophet

On Self-Knowledge

Free Stock

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 known 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 ot 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.

Kahlil Gibran

in, The Prophet

Finding God

Ermita de San Bernabe 

Caverna de Ojo de Guareña em Cueva, Espanha

 

Two men were walking in the valley, and one man pointed with his finger toward the mountainside, and said, 

"See you that hermitage? 

There lives a man who has long divorced the world. 

He seeks but after God, and naught else upon this earth."

And the other man said, 

"He shall not find God until he leaves his hermitage, and the aloneness of his hermitage, and returns to our world, to share our joy and pain, to dance with our dancers at the wedding feast, and to weep with those who weep around the coffins of our dead."

And the other man was convinced in his heart, though in spite of his conviction he answered, 

"I agree with all that you say, yet I believe the hermit is a good man. And may it not well be that one good man by his absence does better than the seeming goodness of these many men?"

Khalil Gibran

The Madman

 

You ask me how I became a madman. 

It happened thus: 

One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen -- the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives. I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, 

"Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves."

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, 

"He is a madman." 

I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, 

"Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks."

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. 

Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

The normal person wears masks in order to function in society, to maintain self-identity in a world that corrodes the self and redefines it for its collective purpose. 

To act without a mask, to think and speak and behave without this veil of illusion, without Maya interposed before one's eyes, is to be mad. 

To lose these masks, to be true to self and therefore true to nature and reality, is to be free. 

This freedom, taken against society, has its risk of loneliness and misunderstanding, but it safeguards intuition and self from the intolerant masses and their expectation of conformity, of mask-wearing.

Let's begin to explore the ramifications of masklessness, of madness. 

Before God, one can be neither slave, creature, nor child. 

One can only be equal to God, not in a frivolous egoistic sense but in terms of identify of being and substance, for to lose the contrived masks of society is to reveal the divine power in the universe and the self.

Among others, therefore, we inevitably become estranged and incompatible.

The "I" in me, my friend, dwells in the house of silence, and there in it shall remain for ever more, unperceived, unapproachable.

I would not have you believe in what I say nor trust in what I do -- for my words are naught but your own thoughts in sound and my deeds your own hopes in action.

When you say,

 "The wind blows eastward," 

I say, 

"Yes, it does blow eastward"; for I would not have you know that my mind does not dwell upon the wind but upon the sea.

You cannot understand my seafaring thoughts, nor would I have you understand. 

I would be at sea alone.

When it is day with you, my friend, it is night with me; yet even then I speak of the noontide that dances upon the hills and of the purple shadow that steals its way across the valley; for you cannot hear the songs of my darkness nor see my wings beating against the stars -- and I fain would not have you hear or see. I would be with night alone.

When you ascend to your Heaven I descend to my Hell - even then you call to me across the unbridgeable gulf, "My companion, my comrade," and I call back to you, "My comrade, my companion" - for I would not have you see my Hell. The flame would burn your eyesight and the smoke would crowd your nostrils. And I love my Hell too well to have you visit it. I would be in Hell alone.

You love Truth and Beauty and Righteousness; and I for your sake say it is well and seemly to love these things. But in my heart I laugh at your love. Yet I would not have you see my laughter. I would laugh alone.

My friend, you are good and cautious and wise; no, you are perfect -- and I, too, speak with you wisely and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness. I would be mad alone.

My friend, you are not my friend, but how shall I make you understand? 

My path is not your path, yet together we walk, hand in hand.

This is how the madman and the hermit must live, not in antagonism or controversy but alone and separate, in silence. Not donning a new mask, the poet instead demurs and disengages and lets other go their way, safeguarding his own path.

Khalil Gibran

in, The Madman

Solitude

Steve Eason

It was but yesterday I thought myself 

a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life. 

Now I know that I am the sphere, 

and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

Solitude is a silent storm 

that breaks down all our dead branches. 

Yet it sends our living roots deeper into the 

living heart of the living earth.

The nearest to my heart are a king without a kingdom 

and a poor man who does not know how to beg.

A traveler am I and a navigator 

and every day I discover a new region within my soul.

A hermit is one who renounces 

the world of fragments that he may enjoy 

the world wholly and without interruption.

Khalil Gibran

in, Sand and Foam, A Book of Aphorisms

The Hermit-Prophet

 

Milkovasa

Once there lived a hermit prophet, and thrice a moon he would go down to the great city and in the market places he would preach giving and sharing to the people. 

And he was eloquent, and his fame was upon the land.

Upon an evening three men came to his hermitage and he greeted them. 

And they said, 

"You have been preaching of giving and sharing, and you have sought to teach those who have much to give unto those who have little; and we doubt not that your fame has brought you riches. Now come and give us of your riches, for we are in need."

And the hermit answered and said, 

"My friends, I have naught but this bed and this mat and this jug of water. Take them if it is in your desire. I have neither gold nor silver."

Then they looked down with distain upon him, and turned their faces from him, and the last man stood at the door for a moment, and said, 

"Oh, you cheat! You fraud! You teach and preach that which you yourself do not perform."

Khalil Gibran

in, The Madman

On Pain

 

wundervisuals

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.

Kahlil Gibran

Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet - Official US Trailer

                                                 

                             

Set in a Mediterranean sea-side village, Kamila (Salma Hayek) cleans house for exiled artist and poet Mustafa (Liam Neeson), but the more difficult job is keeping her free-spirited young daughter, Almitra, (Quvenzhané Wallis) out of trouble. 

The three embark on a journey meant to end with Mustafa’s return home – but first they must evade the authorities who fear that the truth in his words will incite rebellion. 

Featuring music from Damien Rice, Glen Hansard and Yo-Yo Ma.

On Freedom

Imagem do filme 

"Khalil Gibran's The Prophet"

And an orator said, Speak to us of Free-

dom.

    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 fulfilment.

 

    You shall be free indeed when your days

are not without a care nor your nights with-

out 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 under-

standing 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 your eyes.

 

    And what is it but fragments of your own

self you would discard that you may become

free?

    If it is an unjust law you would abolish,

that law was written with your own hand

upon your own forehead.

    You cannot erase it by burning your law

 books nor by washing the foreheads of your

judges, though you pour the sea upon them.

    And if it is a despot you would dethrone,

see first that his throne erected within you is

destroyed.

    For how can a tyrant rule the free and

the proud, but for a tyranny in their own

freedom and a shame in their own pride?

    And if it is a care you would cast off, that

care has been chosen by you rather than

imposed upon you.

    And if it is a fear you would dispel, the

seat of that fear is in your heart and not in

the hand of the feared.

 

    Verily all things move within your being

in constant half embrace, the desired and

the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished,

the pursued and that which you would

escape.

    These things move within you as lights

and shadows in pairs that cling.

    And when the shadow fades and is no

more, the light that lingers becomes a

shadow to another light.

    And thus your freedom when it loses its

fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater

freedom.

Khalil Gibran

in, The Prophet

 

The King-Hermit

Anchor Church Caves, located by the River Trent, UK

The 1,200-year-old structure was built during the tumultuous life of the Northumbrian king Eardwulf, 

who was hounded from his throne to live as a hermit, and later became a saint.

Image credit: Mark Horton /Edmund Simons

They told me that in a forest among the mountains lives a young man in solitude who once was a king of a vast country beyond the Two Rivers. And they also said that he, of his own will, had left his throne and the land 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 must needs 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 in his hand a reed as if it were a scepter. And I greeted him even as I would greet a king. 

And he turned to me and said gently:

"What would you do in this forest of serenity? Seek you a lost self in the green shadows, or is it a homecoming in your twilight?"

And I answered, 

"I sought but you - for I fain would know that which made you leave a kingdom for a forest."

And he said, 

"Brief is my story, for sudden was the bursting of the bubble. It happened thus: one day as I sat at a window in my palace, my chamberlain and an envoy from a foreign land were walking in my garden. And as 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 storms of temper.' And the lord chamberlain and the envoy disappeared among the trees. But in a few minutes they returned, and this time the lord chamberlain was speaking of me, and he was saying, 'My lord the king is like myself—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 longer be 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 would not leave a kingdom for a forest where the seasons sing and dance ceaselessly? Many are those who have given their kingdom for less than solitude and the sweet fellowship of aloneness. Countless are the eagles who descend from the upper air to live with moles that they may know the secrets of the earth. There are those who renounce the kingdom of dreams that they may not seem distant from the dreamless. And those who renounce the kingdom of nakedness and cover their souls that others may not be ashamed in beholding truth uncovered and beauty unveiled. And greater yet than all of these is he who renounces the kingdom of sorrow that he may not 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 those who enter into it and those who go out. And see that you find him who, though born a king, is without kingdom; 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 he turned 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 that day to this numberless are the kings whose shadows have passed over me and few are the subjects over whom my shadow passed.

Khalil Gibran

in, The Forerunner

Beyond My Solitude

Alexander Yakovlev 

Beyond my solitude is another solitude, and to him who dwells therein my aloneness is a crowded market-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 ears and 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 and my 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 the bow 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 my desires 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 beak have built for them?

Khalil Gibran

Defeat

Amit and Naroop

Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;

You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,

And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.

 

Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,

Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot

And not to be trapped by withering laurels.

And in you I have found aloneness

And the joy of being shunned and scorned.

 

Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,

In your eyes I have read

That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,

And to be understood is to be leveled down,

And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness

And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.

 

Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,

You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,

And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,

And urging of seas,

And of mountains that burn in the night,

And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.

 

Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,

You and I shall laugh together with the storm,

And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,

And we shall stand in the sun with a will,

And we shall be dangerous.

KAHLIL GIBRAN

Good and Evil XXII

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.

You are good when you are fully awake in your speech,

Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose.

And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue.

You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps.

Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping.

Even those who limp go not backward.

But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, 

deeming it kindness.

You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good,

You are only loitering and sluggard.

Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles.

In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you.

But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, 

carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest.

And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers 

before it reaches the shore.

But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, 

"Wherefore are you slow and halting?"

For the truly good ask not the naked, 

"Where is your garment?" nor the houseless, 

"What has befallen your house?"

Khalil Gibran

Sou um estrangeiro neste mundo

Sou um estrangeiro neste mundo.

            Sou um estrangeiro, e há na vida do estrangeiro uma solidão pesada e um isolamento doloroso. Sou assim levado a pensar sempre numa pátria encantada que não conheço, e a sonhar com os sortilégios de uma terra longínqua que nunca visitei.

            Sou um estrangeiro para minha alma. Quando minha língua fala, meu ouvido estranha-lhe a voz. Quando meu Eu interior ri ou chora, ou se entusiasma, ou treme, meu outro Eu estranha o que ouve e vê, e minha alma interroga minha alma. Mas permaneço desconhecido e oculto, velado pelo nevoeiro, envolto no silêncio.

            Sou um estrangeiro para o meu corpo. Todas as vezes que me olho num espelho, vejo no meu rosto algo que minha alma não sente, e percebo nos meus olhos algo que minhas profundezas não reconhecem.

            Quando caminho nas ruas da cidade, os meninos me seguem gritando: “Eis o cego, demos-lhe um cajado que o ajude.” Fujo deles. Mas encontro outro grupo de moças que me seguram pelas abas da roupa, dizendo: “É surdo como a pedra. Enchamos seus ouvidos com canções de amor e desejo.” Deixo-as correndo. Depois, encontro um grupo de homens que me cercam, dizendo: “É mudo como um túmulo, vamos endireitar-lhe a língua.” Fujo deles com medo. E encontro um grupo de anciãos que apontam para mim com dedos trêmulos, dizendo: “É um louco que perdeu a razão ao freqüentar as fadas e os feiticeiros.”

            Sou um estrangeiro neste mundo.

            Sou um estrangeiro e já percorri o mundo do Oriente ao Ocidente sem encontrar minha terra natal, nem quem me conheça ou se lembre de mim.

            Acordo pela manhã, e acho-me prisioneiro num antro escuro, frequentado por cobras e insetos. Se sair à luz, a sombra de meu corpo me segue, e as sombras de minha alma me precedem, levando-me aonde não sei, oferecendo-me coisas de que não preciso, procurando algo que não entendo. E quando chega a noite, volto para a casa e deito-me numa cama feita de plumas de avestruz e de espinhos dos campos.

            Ideias estranhas atormentam minha mente, e inclinações diversas, perturbadoras, alegres, dolorosas, agradáveis. À meia-noite, assaltam-me fantasmas de tempos idos. E almas de nações esquecidas me fitam. Interrogo-as, recebendo por toda resposta um sorriso. Quando procuro segura-las, fogem de mim e desvanecem-se como fumaça.

            Sou um estrangeiro neste mundo.

            Sou um estrangeiro e não há no mundo quem conheça uma única palavra do idioma de minha alma...

            Caminho na selva inabitada e vejo os rios correrem e subirem do fundo dos vales ao cume das montanhas. E vejo as árvores desnudas se cobrirem de folhas num só minuto. Depois, suas ramas caem no chão e se transformam em cobras pintalgadas.

            E as aves do céu voam, pousam, cantam, gorgeiam e depois param, abrem as asas e viram mulheres nuas, de cabelos soltos e pescoços esticados. E olham para mim com paixão e sorriem com sensualidade. E estendem suas mãos brancas e perfumadas. Mas, de repente, estremecem e somem como nuvens, deixando o eco de risos irônicos.

            Sou um estrangeiro neste mundo.

            Sou um poeta que põe em prosa o que a vida põe em versos, e em versos o que a vida põe em prosa. Por isto, permanecerei um estrangeiro até que a morte me rapte e me leve para minha pátria.


Khalil Gibran
in, “Temporais”

Manter as Pétalas Bem Abertas

Para viver, é preciso coragem.
Tanto a semente intacta como aquela que rompe a sua casca têm as mesmas propriedades. No entanto, só a que rompe a casca é capaz de se lançar na aventura da vida. Essa aventura requer uma ousadia única: descobrir que não se pode viver através da experiência dos outros, e estar disposto a entregar-se.
Não se pode ter os olhos de um, os ouvidos de outro, para saber de antemão o que vai acontecer; cada existência é diferente da outra. Seja o que for que me espera, eu desejo estar com o coração aberto para receber.
Que eu não tenha medo de colocar o meu braço no ombro de alguém, até que ele seja cortado.
Que eu não tema fazer algo que ninguém fez antes, até que seja ferido.
Deixa-me ser tolo hoje, porque a tolice é tudo o que eu tenho para dar esta manhã; posso ser criticado por isso, mas não tem importância. Amanhã, quem sabe, serei menos tolo.
Quando duas pessoas se encontram, devem ser como dois lírios aquáticos que se abrem lado a lado, cada uma mostrando o seu coração dourado, e reflectindo o lago, as nuvens, e os céus.
Não consigo entender porque é que um encontro gera sempre o oposto disto: corações fechados e medo de sofrimento.
Cada vez que estou contigo, conversamos por quatro, seis horas seguidas. Se pretendemos passar juntos todo este tempo, é importante não tentar esconder nada, e manter as pétalas bem abertas.



Khalil Gibran
in, 'Carta a Mary Haskell, 10 de Setembro de 1920'

A LIBERDADE

Tenho-vos visto prostrados junto às portas da cidade e junto de vossas lareiras para adorar vossa própria liberdade, como escravos que se humilham diante de um tirano louvando-o, embora ele os destrua.
Sim, no arvoredo do templo e à sombra da cidadela, tenho visto os mais livres entre vós carregar sua liberdade como um jugo e uma algema. E meu coração sangrou dentro de mim; pois só podereis libertar-vos quando até mesmo o desejo de procurar a liberdade se tornar um jugo para vós, e quando cessardes de falar em liberdade como uma meta e um fim.

Sereis, na verdade, livres, não quando vossos dias estiverem sem preocupação e vossas noites sem necessidades e aflição. Mas, antes, quando essas coisas apertarem vossa vida e, entretanto, conseguirdes elevar-vos acima delas, desnudos e sem amarras.

E como vos elevareis acima de vossos dias e de vossas noites se não quebrardes as cadeias com que, na madrugada de vosso entendimento, prendeste vossa hora meridiana?
Em verdade, aquilo que chamais liberdade é a mais forte destas cadeias, embora seus elos cintilem ao sol e vos deslumbrem.

E do que é que quereis livrar-vos para serdes livres, senão de pedaços de vós mesmos?
Se é uma lei injusta que quereis abolir, lembrai-vos de que esta lei foi escrita por vossa própria mão em vossa própria testa. Não podeis apagá-la queimando vossos códigos de Leis, nem lavando as faces de vossos juízes, embora despejeis o mar sobre elas.
E se quiserdes destronar um déspota, cuidai primeiro que seja destruído seu trono erguido dentro de vós.
Pois, como poderia um tirano dominar os livres e altivos, se não pela tirania que está em sua própria liberdade e a vergonha em sua própria altivez?
E se é uma preocupação que quereis vos livrar, essa preocupação foi escolhida por vós mais do que a vós imposta.
E se é um temor que precisais dissipar, o assento desse temor está em vosso coração, e não nas mãos do temido.

Na verdade, todas as coisas movem-se dentro de vós num constante meio-aperto, as coisas desejadas e as temidas, aquelas que vos repugnam e aquelas que vos atraem, aquelas de que fugis e aquelas que procurais.
Tais coisas movem-se dentro de vós como pares inseparáveis de luzes e sombras. E quando a sombra desvanece e se dissipa, a luz que se demora torna-se uma sombra para outra luz.
E assim vossa liberdade, solta de suas amarras, torna-se uma amarra para a liberdade maior.


Khalil Gibran
in,  "O Livro da Vida"

O Outono do Corpo

Anastasia Pottinger

A existência não tem apenas um aspecto físico.
As pessoas mais velhas podem estar muito mais vivas do que as jovens, porque já experimentaram muito mais coisas.
O problema da velhice é que, por medo da morte que se aproxima, as pessoas passam a ter medo de viver. Não entendem que o final de uma etapa é que torna possível o próximo passo; a Natureza nunca dá saltos. Da mesma maneira que não quebra os galhos jovens, tampouco impede que uma árvore, velha e cansada, deixe de existir.
Isto é o que chamamos «ordem natural das coisas».
Muitas vezes imagino-me depois da morte, voltando lentamente aos elementos do solo; é a grande entrega, que muda tudo em silêncio e calma, para que as coisas possam renascer.
A idade prepara o meu corpo para fertilizar de novo a terra de onde vim.
O Outono do corpo conduz ao Inverno, e o Inverno é necessário para que uma nova Primavera surja. Da mesma maneira, o meu espírito move-se de uma etapa para outra, sabendo que cada estação tem as suas qualidades e os seus defeitos.



Khalil Gibran
in, 'Carta a Mary Haskell, 12 de Agosto de 1921'

A Intensidade da Vida

A intensidade da vida depende de como a olhamos.
Há pintores que achariam belo este prato de uvas que se encontra sobre a mesa; e tentariam pintá-las com todo o seu frescor, a sua cor, a sua luz e a sua forma.
E nós, quando olhamos o quadro que resultou, devemos pensar nos vinhedos, como eles cresceram, como foi a colheita. Pensar na loja onde o vinho destas uvas será vendido, e nas bocas que o provarão; entender que cada uma delas veio de um lugar diferente, embora estejam todas no mesmo prato. Reparar que o prato é chinês, e recordar tudo o que aprendemos sobre a China.
Então, os nossos olhos dirigem-se para a mesa onde o prato repousa, e pensamos de que madeira é feita, como era a árvore de onde foi tirada, quem a cortou, e onde vivia o lenhador com a sua família. 
Ver as coisas desta maneira enriquece a imaginação e abre-nos para um mundo muito mais rico.
As crianças deviam aprender a fazê-lo.


Khalil Gibran
in, 'Carta a Mary Haskell, 3 de Setembro de 1920'