How perfect you are, O motherland, and how noble you are!
I have walked on your plains and climbed your rocks and mountains and descended into your valleys and entered your caves.
I could thus feel your drowsiness on the plains and your haughtiness in the mountains and your stillness in the valley and your determination in the rocks and your circumspection in the caves. You are always the same: simple in your courage, proud in your humility, raised without pride, strict with kindness, open even in your secrets and mysteries.
I traveled through your seas and crossed your rivers and followed your streams - and heard the voice of eternity in your ebbs and flows, and the centuries sing in the midst of your meadows and hills, and life call life in its shortcuts and hills.
You are the tongue and lips of eternity and the cords of the ages and their fingers. You are the thought of life and its verb.
Your spring woke me up and called me into the forests where the perfumes rise like incense. In the summer, I sat in the fields where your energy turns into fruit. In the fall I drank your wine. In winter I retreated to the alcove where your purity descends on the earth in snowflakes.
You are generous in all seasons.
On a clear night, I opened the windows and doors of my soul and went to you, overwhelmed with greed, chained to my selfishness, and found you staring at the stars smiling at you. I then rejected my chains and burdens, and found that the abode of the soul is your space, and that your aspirations are your aspirations, and your security, your security, and that your happiness is in the golden dust that the stars rain upon your body.
On a carpeted night of clouds, I got tired of my laziness and went out to see you. I found you powerful and combative, using thunderstorms as weapons. You fought the past with the present, the old with the new, the weak with the robust. Then I understood that the law of man is thy law, and his way thy way. I understood that he who does not eliminate with his thunderstorms, his own dry branches, seems bored; and he who does not tear his wilted leaves through revolutions dies in mediocrity, and he who does not put the shroud of oblivion on what dies of his past will himself be a shroud for the deeds of the future.
How generous you are, O motherland, and how patient you are!
How loving you are to your children distracted from the truth by delusions and lost between what was and never will be.
We scream, and you smile.
We destroy, and you restore.
We blaspheme, and you bless.
We defile, and you sanctify.
We sleep without dreaming, and you dream in your eternal vigil.
We tear your chest with swords and spears, and you heal our wounds with balsam and oil.
We bury bones and skeletons in your bosom, and you transform into plantains and willows.
We give you corpses, and you fill our floors with sheaves of wheat and our grape presses.
We smear your face with blood, and you wash our faces with elixir.
We use your raw materials to make cannons and bombs, and you use our materials to make roses and lilies.
How vast your patience is, O motherland, how abundant your affection!
What art thou, O earth?
A grain of dust that appeared under God's feet as he walked from the East of the Universe to his West, or a spark that flew from the bonfire of infinity?
Are you a seed thrown into the ether field, which has broken your house and sprouted and grown, divine tree, over the ether?
Are you a drop of blood from the giant giant's veins, or are you a drop of sweat on your forehead?
Are you a fruit slowly colored by the sun, or are you a fruit on the tree of supreme knowledge whose roots penetrate the depths of eternity? Or are you a jewel that the god of time has put in the hand of the goddess of distances?
Are you a child in your lap space? Are you an old woman who watches the days and the nights and who is filled with the wisdom of the nights and the days?
What are you and who are you, O earth?
You are the same, O earth! You are my look and my vision. You are my reason and my imagination and my dreams. You are my thirst and my hunger. You are my suffering and my joy. You are my sleep and my awakening.
You are the beauty in my eyes, the passion in my heart and the eternity in my soul.
You are myself, O earth. If I didn't exist, you wouldn't exist either.
Author: Gibran Khalil Gibran