Το ελάχιστο για το δοκιμαζόμενο λαό του Λιβάνου που η τελευταία καταστροφή, εκτος απ τους νεκρους και τους τραυματίες, άφησε εκατοντάδες χιλιάδες άστεγους και πεινασμένους ειναι να θυμηθώ ποίηση του Khalil Gibran..
Dead are my people | |
Gone are my people, but I exist yet, | |
Lamenting them in my solitude... | |
Dead are my friends, and in their Death my life is naught but great | |
Disaster. | |
The knolls of my country are submerged | |
By tears and blood, for my people and | |
My beloved are gone, and I am here | |
Living as I did when my people and my | |
Beloved were enjoying life and the | |
Bounty of life, and when the hills of | |
My country were blessed and engulfed | |
By the light of the sun. | |
My people died from hunger, and he who | |
Did not perish from starvation was | |
Butchered with the sword; and I am | |
Here in this distant land, roaming | |
Amongst a joyful people who sleep | |
Upon soft beds, and smile at the days | |
While the days smile upon them. | |
My people died a painful and shameful | |
Death, and here am I living in plenty | |
And in peace...This is deep tragedy | |
Ever-enacted upon the stage of my | |
Heart; few would care to witness this | |
Drama, for my people are as birds with | |
Broken wings, left behind the flock. | |
If I were hungry and living amid my | |
Famished people, and persecuted among | |
My oppressed countrymen, the burden | |
Of the black days would be lighter | |
Upon my restless dreams, and the | |
Obscurity of the night would be less | |
Dark before my hollow eyes and my | |
Crying heart and my wounded soul. | |
For he who shares with his people | |
Their sorrow and agony will feel a | |
Supreme comfort created only by | |
Suffering in sacrifice. And he will | |
Be at peace with himself when he dies | |
Innocent with his fellow innocents. | |
But I am not living with my hungry | |
And persecuted people who are walking | |
In the procession of death toward | |
Martyrdom...I am here beyond the | |
Broad seas living in the shadow of | |
Tranquility, and in the sunshine of | |
Peace...I am afar from the pitiful | |
Arena and the distressed, and cannot | |
Be proud of ought, not even of my own | |
Tears. | |
What can an exiled son do for his | |
Starving people, and of what value | |
Unto them is the lamentation of an | |
Absent poet? | |
Were I an ear of corn grown in the earth | |
of my country, the hungry child would | |
Pluck me and remove with my kernels | |
The hand of Death form his soul. Were | |
I a ripe fruit in the gardens of my | |
Country, the starving women would | |
Gather me and sustain life. Were I | |
A bird flying the sky of my country, | |
My hungry brother would hunt me and | |
Remove with the flesh of my body the | |
Shadow of the grave from his body. | |
But, alas! I am not an ear of corn | |
Grown in the plains of Syria, nor a | |
Ripe fruit in the valleys of Lebanon; | |
This is my disaster, and this is my | |
Mute calamity which brings humiliation | |
Before my soul and before the phantoms | |
Of the night...This is the painful | |
Tragedy which tightens my tongue and | |
Pinions my arms and arrests me usurped | |
Of power and of will and of action. | |
This is the curse burned upon my | |
Forehead before God and man. | |
And oftentimes they say unto me, | |
"The disaster of your country is | |
But naught to calamity of the | |
World, and the tears and blood shed | |
By your people are as nothing to | |
The rivers of blood and tears | |
Pouring each day and night in the | |
Valleys and plains of the earth..." | |
Yes, but the death of my people is | |
A silent accusation; it is a crime | |
Conceived by the heads of the unseen serpents... | |
It is a Sceneless tragedy...And if my | |
People had attacked the despots | |
And oppressors and died rebels, | |
I would have said, "Dying for | |
Freedom is nobler than living in | |
The shadow of weak submission, for | |
He who embraces death with the sword | |
Of Truth in his hand will eternalize | |
With the Eternity of Truth, for Life | |
Is weaker than Death and Death is | |
Weaker than Truth. | |
If my nation had partaken in the war | |
Of all nations and had died in the | |
Field of battle, I would say that | |
The raging tempest had broken with | |
Its might the green branches; and | |
Strong death under the canopy of | |
The tempest is nobler than slow | |
Perishment in the arms of senility. | |
But there was no rescue from the | |
Closing jaws...My people dropped | |
And wept with the crying angels. | |
If an earthquake had torn my | |
Country asunder and the earth had | |
Engulfed my people into its bosom, | |
I would have said, "A great and | |
Mysterious law has been moved by | |
The will of divine force, and it | |
Would be pure madness if we frail | |
Mortals endeavored to probe its | |
Deep secrets..." | |
But my people did not die as rebels; | |
They were not killed in the field | |
Of Battle; nor did the earthquake | |
Shatter my country and subdue them. | |
Death was their only rescuer, and | |
Starvation their only spoils. | |
My people died on the cross.... | |
They died while their hands | |
stretched toward the East and West, | |
While the remnants of their eyes | |
Stared at the blackness of the | |
Firmament...They died silently, | |
For humanity had closed its ears | |
To their cry. They died because | |
They did not befriend their enemy. | |
They died because they loved their | |
Neighbors. They died because | |
They placed trust in all humanity. | |
They died because they did not | |
Oppress the oppressors. They died | |
Because they were the crushed | |
Flowers, and not the crushing feet. | |
They died because they were peace | |
Makers. They perished from hunger | |
In a land rich with milk and honey. | |
They died because monsters of | |
Hell arose and destroyed all that | |
Their fields grew, and devoured the | |
Last provisions in their bins.... | |
They died because the vipers and | |
Sons of vipers spat out poison into | |
The space where the Holy Cedars and | |
The roses and the jasmine breathe | |
Their fragrance. | |
My people and your people, my Syrian | |
Brother, are dead....What can be | |
Done for those who are dying? Our | |
Lamentations will not satisfy their | |
Hunger, and our tears will not quench | |
Their thirst; what can we do to save | |
Them between the iron paws of | |
Hunger? My brother, the kindness | |
Which compels you to give a part of | |
Your life to any human who is in the | |
Shadow of losing his life is the only | |
Virtue which makes you worthy of the | |
Light of day and the peace of the | |
Night....Remember, my brother, | |
That the coin which you drop into | |
The withered hand stretching toward | |
You is the only golden chain that | |
Binds your rich heart to the | |
Loving heart of God..... | |