By the side of a rivulet that
meandered among the rocks at the foot of Lebanon's Mountain sat a
shepherdess surrounded by her flock of lean sheep grazing upon dry
grass. She looked into the distant twilight as if the future were
passing before her. Tears had jeweled her eyes like dew-drops adorning
flowers. Sorrow had caused her lips to open that it might enter and
occupy her sighing heart.
After sunset, as the knolls and
hills wrapped themselves in shadow, History stood before the maiden. He
was an old man whose white hair fell like snow over his breast and
shoulders, and in his right hand he held a sharp sickle. In a voice like
the roaring sea he said, "Peace unto you, Syria."
The virgin rose, trembling with
fear. "What do you wish of me, History?" she asked. Then she
pointed to her sheep. "This is the remnant of a healthy flock that
once filled this valley. This is all that your covetousness has left me.
Have you come now to sate your greed on that?
"These plains that were once
so fertile have been trodden to barren dust by your trampling feet. My
cattle that once grazed upon flowers and produced rich milk, now gnaw at
thistles that leave them gaunt and dry.
"Fear God, oh History, and
afflict me no more. The sight of you has made me detest life, and the
cruelty of your sickle has caused me to love Death.
"Leave me in my solitude to
drain the cup of sorrow- my best wine. Go, History, to the West where
Life's wedding feast is being celebrated. Here let me lament the
bereavement you have prepared for me."
Concealing his sickle under the
folds of his garment, History looked upon her as a loving father looks
upon his child, and said, "Oh Syria, what I have taken from you
were my own gifts. Know that you sister-nations are entitled to a part
of the glory which was yours. I must give to them what I gave you. Your
plight is like that of Egypt, Persia and Greece, for each one of them
also has a lean flock and dry pasture. Oh Syria, that which you call
degradation is an indispensable sleep from which you will draw strength.
The flower does not return to life save through death, and love does not
grow except after separation."
The old man came close to the
maiden, stretched forth his hand and said, "Shake my hand, oh
Daughter of the Prophets." And she shook his hand and looked at him
from behind a screen of tears and said, "Farewell, History,
farewell." And he responded, "Until we meet again Syria, until
we meet again."
And the old man disappeared like
swift lightning, and the shepherdess called her sheep and started on her
way, saying to herself, "Shall there be another meeting?"
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