A poet's death is his life 
by Gibran Khalil Gibran


The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment
of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the the north
wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old
hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling. In a dark recess of that hovel was a
poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to
flicker by the entering winds. He a man in the spring of life who foresay fully that the peacful
hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing. He was awaiting Death's visit
gratefully, and upon his pale face appearted the dawn of hope; and on his lops a sorrowful
simle; and in his eyes forgiveness. 

He was poet perishing from hunger in the city of living rich. He was placed in the earthly world
to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings. He as noble soul, sent by
the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the human spirit. But alas! He gladly
bade the cold earth farewell without recieving a smile from its strange occupants. 

He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only
companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart's feeling. As he
salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his hands heavenward; he moved his
eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the stars from behind the
veil clouds. 

And he said, "Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you. Come close to me and
unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. Come, oh sweet Death, and deliver
me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I interpret to them the
language of the angels. Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me from these multitudes who left
me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed the weak as they do. Come, oh gentle
Death, and enfold me under your white wings, for my fellowmen are not in want of me.
Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and mercy; let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a
mother's kiss, not touched a sister's cheeks, not caresses a sweetheart's fingertips. Come and
take me, by beloved Death." 

Then, at the bedside of the dying poet appeared an angel who possessed a supernatural and
divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies. She embraced him and closed his eyes
so he could see no more, except with the eye of his spirit. She impressed a deep and long and
gently withdrawn kiss that left and eternal smile of fulfillment upon his lips. Then the hovel
became empty and nothing was lest save parchments and papers which the poet had strewn
with bitter futility. Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseases
slumber of ignorance and saw the dawn of knowledge, they erected a monument in the most
beautiful garden of the city and celebrated a feast every year in honor of that poet, whose
writings had freed them. Oh, how cruel is man's ignorance!