Gibran on Love. 2

Yesterday was an extremely busy day. I had to work until almost 8 p.m. and then I had to have dinner with my relatives. I did not have much time. So I just picked up a small book. It was a real pocket book:  4 by 6 inches. It's called "The Little Book of Love". I opened it at random. The following is what I found.

Yesterday I stood at the temple door interrogating the passers-by about the mystery and merit of Love.

And before me passed an old man with an emaciated and melancholy face, who sighed and said: "Love is a natural weakness bestowed upon us by the first man."

But a virile youth retorted:" Love joins our present with the past and the future."

Then a woman with a tragic face sighed and said: "Love is a deadly poison injected by black vipers, that crawl from the caves of hell. The poison seems fresh as dew and the thirtsy soul eagerly drinks it, but after the first intoxication the drinker sickens and dies a slow death."

Then a beautiful, rosy-cheeked damsel smilingly said: "Love is a wine served by the brides of Dawn which strengthens strong souls and enables them to ascend to the stars."

After her a black-robed, bearded man, frowning said: "Love is blind ignorance with which youth begins and ends."

Another, smiling, declared: "Love is a divine knowledge that enables men to see as much as the gods."

Then said a blind man, feeling his way with a cane: "Love is a blinding mist that keeps the soul from discerning the secret of existence, so that the heart sees only trembling phantoms of desire among the hills, and hears only echoes of cries from vociceless valleys."

A young man, playing on his viol, sang: "Love is a magic ray emitted from the burning core of the soul and illuminating the surrounding earth. It enables us to perceive Life as a beautiful dream between one awakening and another."

And a feeble ancient, dragging his feet like two rags, said, in quavering tones: "Love is the rest of the body in the quiet of the grave, the tranquility of the soul in the depth of Eternity."

And a five-year-old child, after him, said laughing: "Love is my father and my mother, and no one knows Love save my father and mother."

And so, all who passed spoke of Love as the image of their hopes and frustrations, leaving it a mystery as before.

Then I heard a voice within the temple: "Life is divided into two halves, one frozen, the other aflame; the burning half is Love."

                                                                     from Thoughts and Meditations

Is love as Gibran said, the image of people's hopes and frustrations or a mixture of fire and ice? What is your version, your understanding of this mysterious and yet endlessly fascinating emotion?