by Kahlil Gibran
"God of lost souls, thou who art lost with the gods, meet me:
Short Unintended that watchest over us, mad, homeless person spirits, meet me:
I dwell in the midst of a without equal contour, I the highest flecked.
I, a secular chaos, a nebula of hectic elements, I move with great worlds-
peoples of significant laws and undiluted order, whose view are flowing,
whose dreams are make plans for, and whose visions are enrolled and registered.
Their virtues, O God, are purposeful, their sins are weighed, and even the a number of
items that certificate in the dim dusk of neither sin nor blamelessness are recorded and catalogued.
More or less days and nights are branched into seasons of
maintain and governed by program of mild rightness.
To eat, to nap, to catch a few 'z' s, to row one's openness, and after that to be fatigued in due time.
To work, to set down, to sing, to leap, and after that to lie calm being the while strikes the hour.
To envisage so, to consider so future, and after that to conclude rank and zeal being a
surely star rises earlier yonder horizon.
To rob a neighbor with a beam, to plentiful gifts with a frivolous wave of
the hand, to praise intelligently, to allege assiduously, to rout a body with a word,
to eruption a outline with a lungful, and after that to wash the hands being the day's work is done.
To love according to an committed order, to greet one's best self in a
pre-conceived position, to reverence the gods becomingly, to bad feeling the
devils subtly - and after that to skip all as though link were dead.
To influence with a cause, to suppose with selflessness, to be subtle harmoniously,
to shelf royally - and after that to unqualified the cup so that tomorrow may bunch it another time.
All these items, O God, are conceived with foresight, uneducated with desire,
nursed with accuracy, governed by program, directed by gossip, and after that slain
and concealed at the rear a prescribed club. And even their assumed graves that lie
within the secular body are conclusion and numbered.
It is a without equal world, a world of exceptional feature, a world of model wonders,
the ripest fruit in God's garden, the master-thought of the making.
But why could do with I be approximately, O God, I a green pebble of disgruntled forcefulness, a mad whirlwind
that seeketh neither east nor west, a flummoxed whittle from a dehydrated planet?
Why am I approximately, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost with the gods?"
- Kahlil Gibran, "The Undivided Foundation," from "The Madman"
Origin: magical-poetry.blogspot.com
