Gibran Stories Omnibus

and said, “Oh,
Lord, have mercy and mend our broken wings.”
      Farris Effandi Karamy died; his soul was embraced by Eternity, and
his body was returned to the earth. Mansour Bey Galib got possession of
his wealth, and Selma became a prisoner of life—a life of grief and
misery.
      I was lost in sorrow and reverie. Days and nights preyed upon me as
the eagle ravages its victim. Many a time I tried to forget my
misfortune by occupying myself with books and scriptures of past
generation, but it was like extinguishing fire with oil, for I could
see nothing in the procession of the past but tragedy and could hear
nothing but weeping and wailing. The Book of Job was more fascinating
to me than the Psalms and I preferred the Elegies of Jeremiah to the
Song of Solomon. Hamlet was closer to my heart than all other dramas of
western writers. Thus despair weakens our sight and closes our ears. We
can see nothing but spectres of doom and can hear only the beating of
our agitated hearts.

BETWEEN CHRIST AND ISHTAR
         
      In the midst of the gardens and hills which connect the city of
Beirut with Lebanon there is a small temple, very ancient, dug out of
white rock , surrounded by olive, almond, and willow trees. Although
this temple is a half mile from the main highway, at the time of my
story very few people interested in relics and ancient ruins had
visited it. It was one of many interesting places hidden and forgotten
in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it had become a haven for worshippers
and a shrine for lonely lovers.
      As one enters this temple he sees on the wall at the east side an
old Phoenician picture, carved in the rock depicting Ishtar, goddess of
love and beauty, sitting on her throne, surrounded by seven nude
virgins standing in different posses. The first one carries a torch;
the second, a guitar; the third, a censer; the fourth a jug of wine;
the fifth, a branch of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the
seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them look at Ishtar reverently.
      In the second wall there is another picture, more modern than the
first one, symbolizing Christ nailed to the cross, and at His side
stand His sorrowful mother and Mary Magdalene and two other women
weeping. This Byzantine picture shows that it was carved in the
fifteenth or sixteenth century.*
      In the west side wall there are two round transits through which the
sun's rays enter the temple and strike the pictures and make them look
as if they were painted with gold water colour. In the middle of the
temple there is a square marble with old paintings on its sides, some
of which can hardly be seen under the petrified lumps of blood which
show that the ancient people offered sacrifices on this rock and poured
perfume, wine, and oil upon it.
      There is nothing else in that little temple except deep silence,
revealing to the living the secrets of the goddess and speaking
wordlessly of past generations and the evolution of religions. Such a
sight carries the poet to a world far away from the one in which he
dwells and convinces the philosopher that men were born religious; they
felt a need for that which they could not see and drew symbols, the
meaning of which divulged their hidden secrets and their desires in
life and death.
      In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every month and spent the
hours with her, looking at those strange pictures, thinking of the
crucified Christ and pondering upon the young Phoenician men and women
who lived, loved and worshipped beauty in the person of Ishtar by
burning incense before her statue and pouring perfume on her shrine,
people for whom nothing is left to speak except the name, repeated by
the march of time before the face of Eternity.
      It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I
met Selma —those heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness, sorrow,
hope, and misery.
      We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days,
discussing our present, fearing our future, and gradually bringing out
the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each
other of our misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with
imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and then we would
become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything
except Love; we embraced each other until our hearts