The Garden of the Prophet 
"part 1" 
by Gibran Khalil Gibran 

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Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a noon unto his own day, returned to the isle
of his birth in the month of Tichreen, which is the month of remembrance. And as his ship
approached the harbour, he stood upon its prow, and his mariners were about him. And there
was a homecoming in his heart. 

And he spoke, and the sea was in his voice, and he said: "Behold, the isle of our birth. Even
here the earth heaved us, a song and a riddle; a song unto the sky, a riddle unto the earth;
and what is there between earth and sky that shall carry the song and solve the riddle save
our own passion? 

"The sea yields us once more to these shores. We are but another wave of her waves. She
sends us forth to sound her speech, but how shall we do so unless we break the symmetry of
our heart on rock and sand? 

"For this is the law of mariners and the sea: If you would freedom, you must needs turn to mist.
The formless is for ever seeking form, even as the countless nebulae would become suns and
moons; and we who have sought much and return now to this isle, rigid moulds, we must
become mist once more and learn of the beginning. And what is there that shall live and rise
unto the heights except it be broken unto passion and freedom? 

"For ever shall we be in quest of the shores, that we may sing and be heard. But what of the
wave that breaks where no ear shall hear? It is the unheard in us that nurses our deeper
sorrow. Yet it is also the unheard which carves our soul to form and fashion our destiny." Then
one of his mariners came forth and said: "Master, you have captained our longing for this
harbour, and behold, we have come. Yet you speak of sorrow, and of hearts that shall be
broken." 

And he answered him and said: "Did I not speak of freedom, and of the mist which is our
greater freedom? Yet it is in pain I make pilgrimage to the isle where i was born, even like
unto a ghost of one slain come to kneel before those who have slain him." And another
mariner spoke and said: "Behold, the multitudes on the sea-wall. In their silence they have
fortold even the day and the hour of your coming, and they have gathered from their fields
and vineyards in their loving need, to await you." 

And Almustafa looked afar upon the multitudes, and his heart was mindful of their yearning,
and he was silent. 

Then a cry came from the people, and it was a cry of remembrance and of entreaty. 

And he looked upon his mariners and said: "And what have I brought them? A hunter was I, in
a distant land. With aim and might i have spent the golden arrows they gave me, but I have
brought down no game. I followed not the arrows. Mayhap they are spreading now in the sun
with the pinions of wounded eagles that would not fall to the earth. And mayhap the
arrow-heads have fallen into the hands of those who had need of them for bread and wine. 

"I know not where they have spent their flight, but this I know: they have made their curve in
the sky. "Even so, love's hand is still upon me, and you, my mariners, still sail my vision, and I
shal not be dumb. I shall cry out when the hand of the seasons is upon my throat, and I shall
sing my words when my lips are burned with flames." 

And they were troubled in their hearts because he spoke of these things. And one said:
"Master, teach us all, and mayhap because your blood flows in our veins, and our breath is of
your fragrance, we shall understand." 

The he answered them, and the wind was in his voice, ans he said: "Brought you me to the
isle of my birth to be a teacher? Not yet have I been caged by wisdom. Too young am I and
too verdant to speak of aught but self, which is for ever the deep calling upon the deep. "Let
him who would have wisdom seek it in the buttercup or in a pinch of red clay. I am still the
singer. Still I shall sing the earth, and I shall sing your lost dreaming that walks the day
between sleep and sleep. But I shall gaze upon the sea." 

And now the ship entered the harbour and reached the sea-wall, and he came thus to the isle
of his birth and stood once more amongst his own people. And a great cry arose from their
hearts so that the loneliness of his home-coming was shaken within him. And they were silent
awaiting his word, but he amswered them not, for the sadness of memory was upon him, and
he said in his heart: "Have I said that I shall sing? Nay, I can but open my lips that the voice of
life may come forth and go out to the wind for joy and support." Then Karima, she who had
played with him, a child, in the Garden of his mother, spoke and said: "Twelve years have you
hidden your face from us, and for twelve years have we hungered and thirsted for your
voice." And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had closed the
eyes of his mother when the white wings of death had gathered her. And he answered and
said: "Twelve years? Said you twelve years, Karima? I measured not my longing with the
starry rod, nor did I sound the depth thereof. For love when love is homesick exhausts time's
measurements and time's soundings. 

"There are moments that hold aeons of separation. Yet parting is naught but an exhaustion of
the mind. Perhaps we have not parted." And Almustafa looked upon the people, and he saw
them all, the youth and the aged, the stalwart and the puny, those who were ruddy with the
touch of wind and sun, and those who were of pallid countenance; 
and upon their face a light of longing and of questioning.