Wednesday, February 3, 2016

"A Poet's Death is His Life"

              The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste to the gardens. There in the suburb stood an olde hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling.  In a dark recess of that hovel was a poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds.  He was a man in the Spring of life who foresaw fully that the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing.  He was awaiting Death's visit gratefully, and upon his pale face appeared the dawn of Hope; and on his lips a sorrowful smile; and in his eyes Forgiveness.
              He was  a Poet perishing from hunger in the city of the living rich.  He was placed in the earthy world to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings.  He was a noble Soul, sent by the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the human Spirit.  He gladly bade the cold earth farewell without receiving a smile from its strange occupants.
              He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart's feeling.  As he salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his arms Heavenward, he moved his eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the stars from behind the veil of the clouds.
              And he said, "Come,oh beautiful Death; my Soul is longing for you.  Come close to me and unfasten the irons of Life, for I am weary of dragging them.  Come, oh sweet Death; and deliver me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I interpret  to them the language of the Angels.  Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me from the multitudes who left me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed the weak as they do.  Come, oh gentle Death, and enfold me under your white wings, for my fellowmen are not in want of me.  Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and mercy, let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a mother's kiss, nor touched a sister's cheeks, nor caressed a sweetheart's fingertips. Come and take me, my beloved Death."
             Then, at the bedside of the dying Poet appeared an Angel who possessed a supernatural and divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies.  She embraced him and closed his eyes so he could see no more, except with the eye of his Spirit. She impressed a deep and long and gently withdrawn kiss that left an Eternal smile of fulfillment upon his lips.  Then the hovel became empty and nothing was left save parchments and papers which the Poet had strewn about with bitter futility.
              Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseased slumber of ignorance and saw the Dawn of Knowledge, they erected a monument in the most beautiful garden of the city and celebrated  a feast every year in honour of that Poet, whose writings had freed them.  Oh, how cruel is man's ignorance.
~Kahlil Gibran
2 February, 2016

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