Khalil Jibran and the boy

Songs have a knack of tenderly curling and weaving their tendrils around moments in time, so much so that they own the event and capture within its folds, the joys and heartbreaks of THAT one dot on the time space continuum.

And the same with poetry.

And more than one penniless beau have sent forth their affections enveloped by the deep sighs of Yeats and Neruda. But rummaging through a junk bookstore at Masjid India over the weekend, I came across a body of work by Khalil Jibran.

And along with pages came the memory of a gentle boy who used to read to me poetry over the phone. It was a pity that I am not a romantic as c'mon, how many men do you know would read Khalil Jibran to a woman 120 miles aways, every other night before she slept. I was ungrateful as I would often fall asleep half way only to be awoken by a concerned "Hello? Hello?"

And I don't even remember his name. I hang my head in shame.

So this is for the boy with the gentle voice:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden