Recited at the annual gathering in memory of Gibran

O Gibran — where are you, what have you

become, and what of the dawn of your eloquence?

Have you slipped loose among the stars, a wing?

Have you poured immortality into your melodies?

Have you fused youth and love into a color

born of an uprising of your fingertips,

And pressed close upon God in the procession of justice,

till He cried out for justice with the fullness of your tongue?

You were — in a day when time was nothing

but bewildered and unbelieving — the prophet of your time,

Sending forth sound wisdom, drunk

with the mighty, towering defiance of your faith.

You would plunge from beauty down to meaning,

and beauty was the meaning of your being;

The least touch of it tips the scale

as conscience tips the scale in your balance.

In your hands it was a fragrance, and a dream

from on high, looking out from your Lebanon,

Mingling God with life, and building

a world of visions upon your edifice.

•

In vain do the stars question the flowers,

and your valley, and the dew, about where you are.