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

 

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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

 

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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

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

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

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

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

Meu Amigo

Meu Amigo, não sou o que pareço. 

O que pareço é apenas uma vestimenta cuidadosamente tecida, 

que me protege de tuas perguntas 

e te protege da minha negligência.

            Meu Amigo, o Eu em mim mora na casa do silêncio, 

e lá dentro permanecerá para sempre, 

despercebido, inalcançável.

            Não queria que acreditasses no que digo 

nem confiasses no que faço – pois minhas palavras 

são teus próprios pensamentos em articulação e meus feitos, 

tuas próprias esperanças em ação.

            Quando dizes: “O vento sopra do leste”, 

eu digo: “Sim, sopra mesmo do leste”, 

pois não queria que soubesses 

que minha mente não mora no vento, mas no mar.

            Não podes compreender meus pensamentos, 

filhos do mar, nem eu gostaria que compreendesses. 

Gostaria de estar sozinho no mar.

            Quando é dia contigo, meu Amigo, é noite comigo. 

Contudo, mesmo assim falo do meio-dia 

que dança sobre os montes e da sombra de púrpura 

que se insinua através do vale: porque não podes ouvir 

as canções de minhas trevas 

nem ver minhas asas batendo 

contra as estrelas – e eu prefiro que não ouças nem vejas. 

Gostaria de ficar a sós com a noite.

            Quando ascendes a teu Céu, 

eu desço ao meu Inferno – mesmo então 

chamas-me através do abismo intransponível, 

“Meu Amigo, Meu Companheiro, Meu Camarada”, 

e eu te respondo: 

“Meu Amigo, Meu Companheiro, Meu Camarada” – porque 

não gostaria que visses meu Inferno. 

A chama queimaria teus olhos, 

e a fumaça encheria tuas narinas. 

E amo demais meu Inferno para querer que o visites. 

Prefiro ficar sozinho no Inferno.

            Amas a Verdade, e a Beleza, e a Retidão. 

E eu, por tua causa, 

digo que é bom e decente amar essas coisas. 

Mas, no meu coração rio-me de teu amor. 

Mas não gostaria que visses meu riso. 

Gostaria de rir sozinho.

            Meu Amigo, tu és bom e cauteloso e sábio. 

Tu és perfeito – e eu também, falo contigo sábia e cautelosamente. 

E, entretanto, sou louco. 

Porém mascaro minha loucura. 

Prefiro ser louco sozinho:

            Meu Amigo, tu não és meu Amigo, 

mas como te farei compreender? 

Meu caminho não é o teu caminho. 

Contudo juntos marchamos, 

de mãos dadas.

Khalil Gibran

in, O Louco

Dádiva

“Fala-nos da dádiva.” 

 E ele respondeu:

 “Vós pouco dais quando dais de vossas posses. 

 É quando dais de vós próprios que realmente dais. 

 Pois, 

o que são vossas posses 

senão coisas que guardais 

por medo de precisardes delas amanhã? 

 E amanhã, 

que trará o amanhã 

ao cão ultraprudente 

que enterra ossos na areia movediça 

enquanto segue os peregrinos para a cidade santa? 

 E o que é o medo da necessidade 

senão a própria necessidade? 

 Não é vosso medo da sede, 

quando vosso poço está cheio, 

a sede insaciável? 

 Há os que dão pouco do muito que possuem, 

e fazem-no para serem elogiados, 

e seu desejo secreto desvaloriza suas dádivas. 

 E há os que têm pouco e dão-no integralmente. 

 Esses confiam na vida e na generosidade da vida, 

e seus cofres nunca se esvaziam. 

 E há os que dão com alegria, 

e essa alegria é já a sua recompensa. 

 E há os que dão com pena, 

e essa pena é o seu batismo. 

 E há os que dão sem sentir pena 

nem buscar alegria nem pensar na virtude: 

 Dão como, no vale, o mirto espalha sua fragrância no espaço. 

 Pelas mãos de tais pessoas, Deus fala; 

e através de seus olhos Ele sorri para o mundo. 

 É belo dar quando solicitado; 

é mais belo, porém, 

dar sem ser solicitado, 

por haver apenas compreendido; 

 E para os generosos, 

procurar quem recebe 

é uma alegria maior ainda que a de dar. 

 E existe alguma coisa que possais guardar? 

 Tudo o que possuís será um dia dado. 

 Dai agora, 

portanto, 

para que a época da dádiva seja vossa 

e não de vossos herdeiros. 

 Dizeis muitas vezes: 

“Eu daria, mas somente a quem merece”. 

 As árvores de vossos pomares não falam assim, 

nem os rebanhos de vossos pastos. 

 Dão para continuar a viver, 

pois reter é perecer. 

 Certamente, 

quem é digno de receber seus dias e suas noites 

é digno de receber de vós tudo o mais. 

 E quem mereceu beber do oceano da vida, 

merece encher sua taça em vosso pequeno córrego. 

 E que mérito maior haverá 

do que aquele que reside na coragem e na confiança, 

mais ainda, 

na caridade de receber? 

 E quem sois vós 

para que os homens devam expor o seu íntimo

 e desnudar seu orgulho 

a fim de que possais ver seu mérito despido 

e seu amor-próprio rebaixado? 

 Procurai ver, 

primeiro, 

se mereceis ser doadores e instrumentos do dom. 

 Pois, na verdade, 

é a vida que dá à vida, 

enquanto vós, 

que vos julgais doadores, 

são meras testemunhas. 

 E vós que recebeis – e vós todos recebeis – não 

assumais encargo de gratidão 

a fim de não pordes um jugo 

sobre vós e vossos benfeitores. 

 Antes, erguei-vos, 

junto com eles, 

sobre asas feitas de suas dádivas; 

 Pois se ficardes demasiadamente preocupados com vossas dívidas, 

estareis duvidando da generosidade 

daquele que tem a terra liberal por mãe 

e Deus por pai.”

Khalil Gibran

in, O Profeta

Ainda ontem pensava que não era

 

Ainda ontem pensava que não era 

mais do que um fragmento trémulo sem ritmo 

na esfera da vida. Hoje sei que sou eu a esfera, 

e a vida inteira em fragmentos rítmicos move-se em mim. 

Eles dizem-me no seu despertar: 

 " Tu e o mundo em que vives não passais de um grão de areia 

 sobre a margem infinita 

 de um mar infinito."

 E no meu sonho eu respondo-lhes:

 "Eu sou o mar infinito, 

 e todos os mundos não passam de grãos de areia sobre a minha margem."

 Só uma vez fiquei mudo. 

 Foi quando um homem me perguntou: 

 "Quem és tu?" 

 Kahlil Gibran

O Amor

 

Quando o amor vos fizer sinal, segui-o;

ainda que os seus caminhos sejam duros e difíceis.

E quando as suas asas vos envolverem, entregai-vos;

ainda que a espada escondida na sua plumagem

vos possa ferir.

E quando vos falar, acreditai nele;

apesar de a sua voz

poder quebrar os vossos sonhos

como o vento norte ao sacudir os jardins.

Porque assim como o vosso amor

vos engrandece, também deve crucificar-vos

E assim como se eleva à vossa altura

e acaricia os ramos mais frágeis

que tremem ao sol,

também penetrará até às raízes

sacudindo o seu apego à terra.

Como braçadas de trigo vos leva.

Malha-vos até ficardes nus.

Passa-vos pelo crivo

para vos livrar do joio.

Mói-vos até à brancura.

Amassa-vos até ficardes maleáveis.

Então entrega-vos ao seu fogo,

para poderdes ser

o pão sagrado no festim de Deus.

Tudo isto vos fará o amor,

para poderdes conhecer os segredos

do vosso coração,

e por este conhecimento vos tornardes

o coração da Vida.

Mas, se no vosso medo,

buscais apenas a paz do amor,

o prazer do amor,

então mais vale cobrir a nudez

e sair do campo do amor,

a caminho do mundo sem estações,

onde podereis rir,

mas nunca todos os vossos risos,

e chorar,

mas nunca todas as vossas lágrimas.

O amor só dá de si mesmo,

e só recebe de si mesmo.

O amor não possui

nem quer ser possuído.

Porque o amor basta ao amor.

E não penseis

que podeis guiar o curso do amor;

porque o amor, se vos escolher,

marcará ele o vosso curso.

O amor não tem outro desejo

senão consumar-se.

Mas se amarem e tiverem desejos,

deverão se estes:

Fundir-se e ser um regato corrente

a cantar a sua melodia à noite.

Conhecer a dor da excessiva ternura.

Ser ferido pela própria inteligência do amor,

e sangrar de bom grado e alegremente.

Acordar de manhã com o coração cheio

e agradecer outro dia de amor.

Descansar ao meio dia

e meditar no êxtase do amor.

Voltar a casa ao crepúsculo

e adormecer tendo no coração

uma prece pelo bem amado,

e na boca, um canto de louvor.

Khalil Gibran

Os Filhos

           

Vossos filhos não são vossos filhos.           

São os filhos e as filhas da ânsia da vida por si mesma.           

Vêm através de vós, mas não de vós.           

E embora vivam convosco, não vos pertencem.           

Podeis outorgar-lhes vosso amor, mas não vossos pensamentos,           

Porque eles têm seus próprios pensamentos.           

Podeis abrigar seus corpos, mas não suas almas;           

Pois suas almas moram na mansão do amanhã,           

Que vós não podeis visitar nem mesmo em sonho.           

Podeis esforçar-vos por ser como eles, mas não procureis fazê-los como vós,           

Porque a vida não anda para trás e não se demora com os dias passados.           

Vós sois os arcos dos quais vossos filhos são arremessados como flechas vivas.           

O arqueiro mira o alvo na senda do infinito e vos estica com toda a sua força          

Para que suas flechas se projetem, rápidas e para longe.           

Que vosso encurvamento na mão do arqueiro seja vossa alegria:           

Pois assim como ele ama a flecha que voa,           

Ama também o arco que permanece estável. 

Khalil Gibran

in, O Profeta

Amai-vos...

 

Amai-vos um ao outro,

mas não façais do amor um grilhão.

Que haja, antes, um mar ondulante

entre as praias de vossa alma.

Enchei a taça um do outro,

mas não bebais da mesma taça.

Dai do vosso pão um ao outro,

mas não comais do mesmo pedaço.

Cantai e dançai juntos,

e sede alegres,

mas deixai

cada um de vós estar sozinho.

Assim como as cordas da lira

são separadas e,

no entanto,

vibram na mesma harmonia.

Dai vosso coração,

mas não o confieis à guarda um do outro.

Pois somente a mão da Vida

pode conter vosso coração.

E vivei juntos,

mas não vos aconchegueis demasiadamente.

Pois as colunas do templo

erguem-se separadamente.

E o carvalho e o cipreste

não crescem à sombra um do outro.

Kahlil Gibran

Divina Música!

 

Filha da Alma e do Amor.

Cálice da amargura

e do Amor.

Sonho do coração humano,

fruto da tristeza.

Flor da alegria, fragrância

e desabrochar dos sentimentos.

Linguagem dos amantes,

confidenciadora de segredos.

Mãe das lágrimas do amor oculto.

Inspiradora de poetas, de compositores

e dos grandes realizadores.

Unidade de pensamento dentro dos fragmentos

das palavras.

Criadora do amor que se origina da beleza.

Vinho do coração

que exulta num mundo de sonhos.

Encorajadora dos guerreiros,

fortalecedora das almas.

Oceano de perdão e mar de ternura.

Ó música.

Em tuas profundezas

depositamos nossos corações e almas.

Tu nos ensinaste a ver com os ouvidos

e a ouvir com os corações.

Khalil Gibran

O Louco

 

Perguntais-me como me tornei louco. 

Aconteceu assim: 

Um dia, muito tempo antes de muitos deuses terem nascido, 

despertei de um sono profundo 

e notei que todas as minhas máscaras tinham sido roubadas. 

sim, as sete máscaras que para mim tinha fabricado 

e utilizado nas minhas sete vidas. 

corri sem máscara pelas ruas cheias de gente gritando: 

- Ladrões, ladrões, malditos ladrões! 

Homens e mulheres riram-se de mim 

e alguns fecharam-se em casa, 

com medo de mim. 

E quando cheguei à praça do mercado, 

um rapaz que estava de pé 

no telhado da casa, 

gritou apontando-me com o dedo: 

- É um louco! 

Ergui os olhos para o ver, 

O sol banhou o meu rosto despido 

e a minha alma 

encheu-se de amor ao sol, 

e desde então 

nunca mais quis usar máscara. 

Depois gritei 

como se estivesse em transe: 

- Benditos, benditos os ladrões 

que me roubaram máscaras!” 

Foi assim que me tornei louco. 

encontrei muita liberdade 

e segurança 

na minha loucura; 

a liberdade da solidão 

e a segurança de nunca ser compreendido, 

pois aqueles que nos compreendem 

fazem de nós escravos. 

mas não deixem que me orgulhe demasiado 

da minha segurança; 

nem sequer o ladrão encarcerado 

está livre de encontrar outro ladrão. 

Khalil Gibran 

in O Louco