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One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen -- the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives ; I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, "Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves." Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me. And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, "He is a madman." I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, "Blessed, blessed are thethieves who stole my masks." Thus I became a madman. And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us. But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief. Every thousand thousand years the sun and the moon and this earth and all her sister planets meet in a straight line, and they confer for a moment together. Then they slowly disperse and await the passing of another thousand thousand years. They say He raised the dead to life. If you can tell me what is death, then I will tell you what is life. In a field I have watched an acorn, a thing so still and seemingly useless. And in the spring I have seen that acorn take roots and rise, the beginning of an oak tree, towards the sun. Surely you would deem this a miracle, yet that miracle is wrought a thousand thousand times in the drowsiness of every autumn and the passion of every spring. Why shall it not be wrought in the heart of man? Shall not the seasons meet in the hand or upon the lips of a Man Anointed? If our God has given to earth the art to nestle seed whilst the seed is seemingly dead, why shall He not give to the heart of man to breathe life into another heart, even a heart seemingly dead? I have spoken of these miracles which I deem but little beside the greater miracle, which is the man Himself, the Wayfarer, the man who turned my dross into gold, who taught me how to love those who hate me, and in so doing brought me comfort and gave sweet dreams to my sleep. This is the miracle in my own life. My soul was blind, my soul was lame. I was possessed by restless spirits, and I was dead. But now I see clearly, and I walk erect. I am at peace, and I live to witmess and proclaim my own being every hour of the day. And I am not one of His followers. I am but an old astronomer who visits the fields of space once a season, and who would be heedful of the law and the miracles thereof. And I am at the twilight of my time, but whenever I would seek its dawning, I seek the youth of Jesus. And for ever shall age seek youth. In me now it is knowledge that is seeking vision. O kiss enveloped in the scarves of all the winds surprise me with one dream that my madness will recoil from you Recoiling from you In order to approach you I discovered time Approaching you in order to recoil from you I discovered my senses Between approach and recoil there is a stone the size of a dream It does not approach It does not recoil You are my country A stone is not what I am therefore I do not like to face the sky nor do I die level with the ground but I am a stranger, always a stranger . It was the heart that strayed for a while, and then returned. I ask my love: In which heart was I struck? She bent over me and covered my question with a tear. O heart... heart, how is it you lied to me and disrupted my climax ? We have plenty of time, heart , stabilize So that a hoopoe bird may fly to you from the land of Balqis. We have sent letters. We have crossed thirty seas and sixty coast lines and still there is time in life for greater wanderings. And O heart, how is it that you lied to a mare that never tires of the winds. Hold on so we can complete this final embrace and kneel in worship. Hold on..hold on. Let me find out if you are my heart or her voice crying: Take me. I am an Arab And my identity card is number fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is coming after a summer Will you be angry? Record! I am an Arab Employed with fellow workers at a quarry I have eight children I get them bread Garments and books from the rocks.. I do not supplicate charity at your doors Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber So will you be angry? Record! I am an Arab You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors And the land which I cultivated Along with my children... And you left nothing for us Except for these rocks.. Therefor! Record on the top of the first page: I do not hate people Nor do I encroach But if I become hungry The usurper’s flesh will be my food Beware.. Beware.. Of my hunger And my anger! peel off their outer skin I see faces divested of makeup and masks and I see an empty stage the spectators danying their own images in the third act. I see a poor man rise and dream of recreating order. He doesn't frequent the idlers' cafes The papers don't carry his picture, news agencies don't relay his words. He carves the image of his absent love on the ceiling of a mountain cave and sings. her child, and waited to lie beside him for years. When finally they lowered her down into that soil, She was only one day old while he was already an old man. Heart of mud, Depthless eyes Day drained from eye-holes. Prostitute, Left behind the train In europian night Without mantle, Dying under rain and snow. I wished to scream: Hey you, old woman, Dressed in worn out mantlet, Your train is gone. 
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