Lesson 16

History and nation

Kahill Gibran

Kahill Gibran was a poem , philosopher and artist. He was born in Lebanon on January 6,1883. He is best
known for poetic parables and aphorisms contained in his works “The prophet” (1923) and “Sand and
Foam” (1926). His popularity spread far beyond Middle East. His poems have been translated in more
than twenty (20) languages and his painting have been exhibited in many great countries.

By the side of a rivulet that meandered among the rocks at the foot of Lebanon’s Mountain sat a
shepherdess with her flock of lean sheep gazing upon dry grass. She looked into the distant twilight as if
the future were passing before her. Tears had jeweled her eye like dew-drops adorning flowers. Sorrow
had caused her lips to open that it might enter and occupy her sighing heart.

After sunset, as the knolls and hills wrapped themselves in shadow, History stood before the maiden. He
was an old man whose white hair felt like snow over his breast and shoulders, and in his right he held a
sharp sickle. In a voice like the roaring sea he said. “Peace unto you, Syria.”

The virgin rose, trembling with fear. “What do you wish for me, History?” she asked. Then she pointed
to her sheep. “This is the remnant of a healthy flock that once filled valley. This is all that your
covetousness has left me. Have you come now to sate our freed on that?

“These plains that were once so fertile have been trodden to barren dust by your trampling feet. My
cattle that once grazed upon flowers and produced rich milk, now gnaw at thistles that leave them gaunt
and dry.

“Fear God, Oh History, and afflict me no more. The sight of you has made me detest life, and the cruelty
of your sickle has caused me to love Death.

“Leave me in my solitude to drain the cup of sorrow---- my best wine. Go, History , to the West Where
Life’s wedding feast is being celebrated. Here let me lament the bereavement you have prepared for
me.”

Concealing his sickle under the folds of his garment, History looked upon her as a loving father looks
upon his child, and said, “Oh Syria, what I have taken from you were my own gifts. Know that your sister
nations are entitled to a part of a glory which was yours. I must give to them what I gave you Your Plight
was like that of Egypt, Persia, and Greece, for each one of them also has a lean flock and dry pasture.
Oh, Syria, that which you call degradation is an indispensable sleep from which you will draw strength.
The flower dose not return to life save through death, and love dose not grow except after separation.

The old man came close to the maiden, stretched forth his hand and said, “Shake my hand. Oh,
Daughter of the Prophets.” And she shook his hand and looked at him from behind a screen of tears and
said, “Farewell, History, Farewell.” And he responded, “Until we meet again Syria, until we meet again.”

And the old man disappeared like swift lightning, and the shepherdess called her sheep and started on
her way, saying to herself, “Shall there be another meeting