Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Posts Tagged ‘Kahlil Gibran

Then Said Almitra, “Speak to Us of Love”

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And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

— Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931), The Prophet

Written by cthulhu

October 16, 2009 at 2:43 am

Silence Sustenance

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Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.

— Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), Lebanese-born U.S. mystic, painter, and poet. Sand and Foam.

I feel empty. Not the vast emptiness of the deepest abyss. More of the silent landscape of the arching dunes. 

Dunes. Thus comes the complexity of spannungsbogen. The self-imposed delay between when one begins to desire something and when one attempts to achieve or acquire it.

Am I always the patient one? Acquiring worldly material with every wrought of blood, toil, tears and sweat. Praying of heaven forgiveness for every virtue withered in the solitude of the night with this fragile faith. The courtship that gone awry in the tide of time. Ethereal affection that’s nought of immortality.

What do one seek from a soul mate? Matrimonial commune? Sensual gratification? Mutual camaraderie? Shared vision? Psychological support?

If what I sought is mere discourse as a way to break the recourse of being reticence. Would she partakes with mutual ascension of sympathy or falls down to concession of apathy?

Am I under the notion of overwhelming expectation from her? That delayed response is her unforgiving retaliation against my intrusion into her wall of contentment.

Is it a waste of poetic breathe for every prose and verse gusting into that small gap of her wall. As the voice rang hollow between the opportunity. A nuisance more than something that used to evoke “her soul to heaven.”

I didn’t seek more than I can sought.

The act of futility is enough to plough through the end of servile intimacy.

Perhaps it become too monotonous with all the attention, that there’s no more gratification from physical rendezvous (tiring and tedious), a simple messaging (succinct word come with a terse reply) and verbal banter (muffled and distracted).

Provocation rises doubt, but I’ll always the one end up being pigeonholed as <insert narcissistic adjective here>.

If I’m bored of you, why do I feel the opposite?

Written by cthulhu

February 17, 2009 at 2:15 am