City of the dead 
by Gibran Khalil Gibran


Yesterday I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded 
into the field until I reached a knoll upon which Nature had 
spread her comely garments. Now I could breathe. 

I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificient mosques 
and stately residences veiled by the smoke of the shops. 

I commenced analyzing man's mission, but could conclude only that 
most of his life was identified with struggle and hardship. Then I 
tried not to ponder over what the sons of Adam had done, and centered 
my eyes on the field which is the throne of God's glory. In one 
secluded corner of the field I observed a burying ground surrounded 
by poplar trees. 

There, between the city of the dead and the city of the living, I 
meditated. I thought of the eternal silence in the first and the 
endless sorrow in the second. 

In the city of the living I found hope and despair; love and 
hatred, joy and sorrow, wealth and poverty, faith and infidelity. 

In the city of the dead there is buried earth in earth that Nature 
converts, in the night's silence, into vegetation, and then into 
animal, and then into man. As my mind wandered in this fashion, 
I saw a procession moving slowly and reverently, accompanied by 
pieces of music that filled the sky with sad melody. It was an 
elaborate funeral. The dead was followed by the living who wept 
and lamented his going. As the cortege reached the place of interment 
the priests commenced praying and burning incense, and musicians 
blowing and plucking their instruments, mourning the departed. Then 
the leaders came forward one after the other and recited their 
eulogies with fine choice of words. 

At last the multitude departed, leaving the dead resting in a most 
spacious and beautiful vault, expertly designed in stone and iron, 
and surrounded by the most expensively-entwined wreaths of flowers. 

The farewell-bidders returned to the city and I remained, watching 
them from a distance and speaking softly to myself while the sun 
was descending to the horizon and Nature was making her many 
preparations for slumber. 

Then I saw two men labouring under the weight of a wooden casket, 
and behind them a shabby-appearing woman carrying an infant on 
her arms. Following last was a dog who, with heartbreaking eyes, 
stared first at the woman and then at the casket. 

It was a poor funeral. This guest of Death left to cold society 
a miserable wife and an infant to share her sorrows and a faithful 
dog whose heart knew of his companion's departure. 

As they reached the burial place they deposited the casket into a 
ditch away from the tended shrubs and marble stones, and retreated 
after a few simple words to God. The dog made one last turn to look 
at his friend's grave as the small group disappeared behind the 
trees. 

I looked at the city of the living and said to myself, "That place 
belongs to the few." Then I looked upon the trim city of the dead 
and said, "That place, too, belongs to the few. Oh Lord, where 
is the haven of all the people?" 

As I said this, I looked toward the clouds, mingled with the 
sun's longest and most beautiful golden rays. And I heard a 
voice within me saying, "Over there!"