Gibran on the mysteries of Love

There is no word in this world which is used and abused more than the word 'love". Pop song composers write little except love" : being in love, falling out of love, longing for love, regretting the passing of love, finding love etc. Poets are not much better, though they use the word less or more obliguely. The word appears on the lips of every preacher, whether Christian, Muslim, Hindu, or Buddhist. What does Khalil Gibran think about it?  I can do no better than let him speak for himself through the mouths of various characters he invented.

"Yesterday I found myself on the steps of the Temple questioning passers-by about the mysteries and merits of Love.

An old man with a worn and melancholy face replied to me, " Love is a natural weakness which was bequeathed to us by the first man,"

And a healthy young man said to me: "Love links our present to the roots of our past and to the dome of our future."

Then there came a woman with a tragic face who told me with a sigh: "Love is a mortal poison injected by black vipers from the caverns of Hell. This poison seems as cool as the dew and the thirsty soul drinks great mouthfuls of it. But once he is intoxicated with it, the drinker will be overcome with languors and will die a painful death."

And a young girl with rosy cheeks and joyful eyes replied to me:" Love is wine served by the betrothed of the dawn. it strengthens firm souls and allows them to rise up to the stars."

Then I questioned two bearded men wearing black robes. One told me, knitting his brow: "Love is the blind ignorance in which youth begins and ends."

And the other, with a smile on his lips, replied: "Love is a divine knowledge which allows man to see what the gods see."

Then a blind man seeking his way with the tip of his cane said to me: "Love is a blinding fog which prevents the soul from discerning the secret of existence, in such a way that the heart no longer sees in the hills anything more than the trembling phantoms of desire and no longer hears anything beyond the echoes of weeping from the silent valleys."

And a decrepit old man said to me in a quavering voice:" Love is the repose of the body in the silences of the tomb, the tranquility of the soul, and the depths of eternity."

And the child of five accompanied by his parents said to me, laughingly, "Love is my father and my mother, and they are the only ones who know what it is."

And so each passer-by evoked love as the reflection of his hopes and frustrations; and the mystery still remained obscure."

Love therefore is all things to all people, according to their age, sex, occupation, personal experience, hopes and frustrations. This may well be question we have to ask ourselves until our dying day and find that we are no nearer to finding out what it is though we shall have plenty of opportunities before then of finding out what it is not. But that does not and will not stop us from finding out more and more about what it can mean. We do not have much choice, if we want to live as we should, in what we believe to be love.