The Rocks

Among rocks there is none more beautiful or more noble than this ascending Lebanese rock, as though it had been planted in this earth as dwelling, bounty, and destiny; and in this splendid piece by the great Rihani, this eternal, ascending splendor is revealed to the reader...

The rocks?

Have you ever stood among the rocks, on the mountain heights, contemplating their formation and their shapes and the meanings of their beauty and their majesty?

And have you looked, through the ruined temples of nature, to what lies beyond the columns and the walls — to the soul of being and the hand of time?

Is there in their loftiness anything but glory?

And in their grandeur anything but might?

And in their terror anything but dangers?

And in their steadfastness anything but strength?

And in their ruined places anything but weakness?

And in their ranks anything but chaos? And in their windings anything but bewilderment??

♦

The towering rocks?... The crouching, the languid, and the toppling rocks,

the forbidding, brooding, warning rocks,

the broken, fissured rocks,

the massed rocks and the crumbling...

Have you ever stood contemplating them, trying to enter into their heart, into the secret hidden within them?

In their heart is the seed that once surged beneath the waves, in the depths of the seas.

In their heart is the germ of eternal, everlasting life.

In their heart is the secret atom that lives by being shattered, becoming food and fragrance in the trees and the flowers.

In their heart is the prison of selfhood and the silence of sorrows.

In their heart is the immortal symbol of the scourge of time.

In their heart is the message of ascent, even

in the boulders.
From the depths of the seas to the mountain heights, from the miry, germ-ridden, moss-grown darknesses to the summit of light and crystal and clarity — this is the rocks' long march, nay, their epic.
And is there in their loftiness anything but glory and honor? In it are the tombs of sacrifices, and the riddles of death and life.
And is there in their grandeur anything but might and majesty? In it are standing patience, and brooding pride, and everlasting silence.
And is there in their terror anything but dangers? In it is the tale of the volcanoes and the blazing fire, and the story of the earthquakes and the hurricanes.
And is there in their steadfastness anything but strength? In it is the declaration of the fates and the chains of night and day.
And is there in their ruined places anything but weakness and frailty? In them is the proof of a tenderness in their heart that is still alive, and of an affection still fresh with dew. In their ruined places is a house for the sparrow, and a shelter for the snail; and in them are flutes for the winds.
And is there in their ranks anything but chaos? In them are embodied the first principles of life, in loosing and binding, and the laws of life, in diversity and unity; and in them is knowledge and guidance and inspiration for the masters of the arts.