Still He Lfits The Mallet
Still he lifts the mallet,
still he may draw the sword,
still he might speak out,
for a cause he knows is right.
And the prayer of the heart
continues.
If you ask someone where they see themselves in ten years' time, they may not know the answer. In a way, this is to be expected. But what if you rephrase the question and ask someone where they see their heart in ten years' time? Where they see their soul? To these questions they may be able to provide an answer, because the heart and soul can picture the people we love long after the places in which we met and have known them fade away. Our hearts and souls grow in a dimension different than our bodies.
On September 3, 1920 Mary Haskell wrote in her journal: "Kahlil said "My mother was always saying little things to me when I was twelve that I'm just realizing now. When I was sixteen, she said, "Yes, you'll write like this until you are thirty-five. Then, you will write." I didn't like that and she said, "No, I didn't mean what you are thinking I meant. People will always love what you write. And I like those things, too. You've found yourself. But you'll have to live a great deal before you find that other man. And then you'll have to write what he has to say." When I said I loved "working" (editing) his manuscript better than anything else in the world, he said, "I'll bring you every line I ever write."
At the time, Gibran did not know what we would write in the coming years, but he knew with whom he would want to share it.
Still he lifts the mallet,
still he may draw the sword,
still he might speak out,
for a cause he knows is right.
And the prayer of the heart
continues.
If you ask someone where they see themselves in ten years' time, they may not know the answer. In a way, this is to be expected. But what if you rephrase the question and ask someone where they see their heart in ten years' time? Where they see their soul? To these questions they may be able to provide an answer, because the heart and soul can picture the people we love long after the places in which we met and have known them fade away. Our hearts and souls grow in a dimension different than our bodies.
On September 3, 1920 Mary Haskell wrote in her journal: "Kahlil said "My mother was always saying little things to me when I was twelve that I'm just realizing now. When I was sixteen, she said, "Yes, you'll write like this until you are thirty-five. Then, you will write." I didn't like that and she said, "No, I didn't mean what you are thinking I meant. People will always love what you write. And I like those things, too. You've found yourself. But you'll have to live a great deal before you find that other man. And then you'll have to write what he has to say." When I said I loved "working" (editing) his manuscript better than anything else in the world, he said, "I'll bring you every line I ever write."
At the time, Gibran did not know what we would write in the coming years, but he knew with whom he would want to share it.
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