The Prophet

One of my favourite modern literatures of all time – Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, first published in 1926. I first heard of his work back in my university days in Imperial College. I remembered being introduced to Gibran by a good friend and also my faculty mate Ramanath Gheerawo, or Ram, as we called him. The copy of this book I have is published by Penguin Arkana, which I bought somewhere in one of those small bookshops in Camden. That was in 1994, I actually scribbled some textural idiosyncrasies down with the year of purchase on the preface page. The book describes him as a poet, philosopher and artist, a Lebanese who was considered by the millions of Arabic-speaking peoples familiar with his writings as a genius of his age.

The Prophet speaks of simple, daily things which most of us take for granted, living our lives through day by day without even as much as a glance to what happens around us. I bring to your attention to an extract of his writings which, until this very day, catches me in a subtle avalanche and renews my belief in what love is supposed to be:

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 fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these by 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 hear and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstacy;
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.