The Qadisha valley-spirit of Lubnan Mountain ever lives in inspiration; inspiration’s gateway being the issuer forth of ideas that nourish the needs of the times that be.
Subtle she is almost like as if she were making no effort at all.
Yet be she is most assuredly.
Only those who lend themselves to patiently and reverently standing in dawns and twilights can begin to appreciate her profound generosity.
Behold, hereupon is presented the Annunciation of the Qadisha valley-spirit of Lubnan Mountain, concerning Myriam the Beautiful; a fragrant scion from her upland groves.
In this scroll herewith, it is written for all to read in refined contemplation, and joyful anticipation, a goodly and timely message.
My Myriam my Beloved, who is my dawn and my fulfilment unto her own day, had waited seven years in my city isle of Éirelese for her ship that was to return and bear her back to my Lebanon, my land of her birth.
And in my seventh year, on my eight day of September, my month of reaping, she climbed my hill without my city walls and looked seaward; and she beheld her ship coming with my mist.
Then my gates of her heart were flung open, and her joy flew far out over my sea.
And she closed her eyes and prayed in my silences of her soul.
But as she descended my hill, my sadness came upon her, and she thought in her heart:
How shall I go in my peace and without my sorrow?
Nay, not without my wound in my spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were my days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were my nights of aloneness; and who can depart from her pain and her aloneness without her regret?
Too many fragments of my spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are my children of my longing that walk leafless among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without my burden and my ache.
It is not my garment I cast off this day, but my skin that I tear with my own hands.
Nor is it my thought I leave behind me, but my heart made sweet with my hunger and with my thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
My sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though my hours burn in my night, is to languish and fossilise and be bound in my mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here.
But how shall I?
My voice cannot carry my tongue and my lips that gave it my wings.
Alone must it seek my ether.
And alone and without her nest shall my eagle fly across my sun.
Now when she reached my foot of my hill, she turned again towards my sea, and she saw her ship approaching, and upon her prow my mariners, my women and men of her own land.
And her soul cried out to them, and she said:
My daughters and sons of my ancient mother, you riders of my tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams.
And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with my sails full set awaits my wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,
And then I shall stand among you, your seafarer among your seafarers.
And you, my vast sea, my sleeping mother,
Who alone are my peace and my freedom to my river and my stream,
Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,
And then I shall come to you, your boundless drop to your boundless ocean.
And as she walked she saw from afar my women and my men leaving their fields and their orchards and their gardens, and hastening towards my city gates.
And she heard their voices calling her name, and shouting from my field to my field telling one another of the coming of her ship.
And she said to herself:
Shall my day of parting be my day of gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in his midfurrow, or to her who has stopped her rolling pin on her breadboard?
Shall my heart become my tree heavy-laden with my fruit that I may gather and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like my fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I their harp that our Most Beloved may touch me, or their flute that Her breath may pass through me?
My seeker of my silences am I, and what treasure have I found in my silences that I may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed my seed, and in what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be my hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,
And my guardian of my night shall fill it with my oil and she shall light it also.
These things she said in my words.
But much in her heart remained unsaid.
For she had not yet been taught my deeper secrets.
And when she entered into my city all my people came to meet her, and they were crying out to her as with one voice.
And my elders of my city stood forth and said:
Go not yet away from us.
Our noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us, nor our guest, but our daughter and our dearly beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
And my priests and sisters said unto her:
Let not our waves of our sea separate us now, and your years you have spent in our midst become our memory.
You have walked among us as spirit, and your shadow has been our light upon our faces.
Much have we loved you.
But speechless was our love, and with our veils has it been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it been that our love knows not its own depth until its hour of separation.
And others came also and entreated her.
But she answered them not.
She only bent her head; and those who stood near saw her tears falling upon her bosom.
And she and my people proceeded towards my great square before my Temple.
And there came out of my sanctuary my faithful one whose name was Suibhne.
And he was my seer.
And she looked upon him with exceeding tenderness, for it was he who had first sought and believed in her when she had been but her first day in my city.
And he hailed her, saying:
Philosopher-poetess of our Most Beloved, in quest of our uttermost, long have you searched your distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for your land of your memories and your dwelling-place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth.
And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to our weeping and our laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between our birth and our death.
And she answered:
People of Éirelese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?
Myriam of Lebanon: Philosopher-poetess from the Phoenician port city of Byblos
Subtle she is almost like as if she were making no effort at all.
Yet be she is most assuredly.
Only those who lend themselves to patiently and reverently standing in dawns and twilights can begin to appreciate her profound generosity.
Behold, hereupon is presented the Annunciation of the Qadisha valley-spirit of Lubnan Mountain, concerning Myriam the Beautiful; a fragrant scion from her upland groves.
In this scroll herewith, it is written for all to read in refined contemplation, and joyful anticipation, a goodly and timely message.
My Myriam my Beloved, who is my dawn and my fulfilment unto her own day, had waited seven years in my city isle of Éirelese for her ship that was to return and bear her back to my Lebanon, my land of her birth.
And in my seventh year, on my eight day of September, my month of reaping, she climbed my hill without my city walls and looked seaward; and she beheld her ship coming with my mist.
Then my gates of her heart were flung open, and her joy flew far out over my sea.
And she closed her eyes and prayed in my silences of her soul.
But as she descended my hill, my sadness came upon her, and she thought in her heart:
How shall I go in my peace and without my sorrow?
Nay, not without my wound in my spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were my days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were my nights of aloneness; and who can depart from her pain and her aloneness without her regret?
Too many fragments of my spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are my children of my longing that walk leafless among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without my burden and my ache.
It is not my garment I cast off this day, but my skin that I tear with my own hands.
Nor is it my thought I leave behind me, but my heart made sweet with my hunger and with my thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
My sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though my hours burn in my night, is to languish and fossilise and be bound in my mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here.
But how shall I?
My voice cannot carry my tongue and my lips that gave it my wings.
Alone must it seek my ether.
And alone and without her nest shall my eagle fly across my sun.
Now when she reached my foot of my hill, she turned again towards my sea, and she saw her ship approaching, and upon her prow my mariners, my women and men of her own land.
And her soul cried out to them, and she said:
My daughters and sons of my ancient mother, you riders of my tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams.
And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with my sails full set awaits my wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,
And then I shall stand among you, your seafarer among your seafarers.
And you, my vast sea, my sleeping mother,
Who alone are my peace and my freedom to my river and my stream,
Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,
And then I shall come to you, your boundless drop to your boundless ocean.
And as she walked she saw from afar my women and my men leaving their fields and their orchards and their gardens, and hastening towards my city gates.
And she heard their voices calling her name, and shouting from my field to my field telling one another of the coming of her ship.
And she said to herself:
Shall my day of parting be my day of gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in his midfurrow, or to her who has stopped her rolling pin on her breadboard?
Shall my heart become my tree heavy-laden with my fruit that I may gather and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like my fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I their harp that our Most Beloved may touch me, or their flute that Her breath may pass through me?
My seeker of my silences am I, and what treasure have I found in my silences that I may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed my seed, and in what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be my hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,
And my guardian of my night shall fill it with my oil and she shall light it also.
These things she said in my words.
But much in her heart remained unsaid.
For she had not yet been taught my deeper secrets.
And when she entered into my city all my people came to meet her, and they were crying out to her as with one voice.
And my elders of my city stood forth and said:
Go not yet away from us.
Our noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us, nor our guest, but our daughter and our dearly beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
And my priests and sisters said unto her:
Let not our waves of our sea separate us now, and your years you have spent in our midst become our memory.
You have walked among us as spirit, and your shadow has been our light upon our faces.
Much have we loved you.
But speechless was our love, and with our veils has it been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it been that our love knows not its own depth until its hour of separation.
And others came also and entreated her.
But she answered them not.
She only bent her head; and those who stood near saw her tears falling upon her bosom.
And she and my people proceeded towards my great square before my Temple.
And there came out of my sanctuary my faithful one whose name was Suibhne.
And he was my seer.
And she looked upon him with exceeding tenderness, for it was he who had first sought and believed in her when she had been but her first day in my city.
And he hailed her, saying:
Philosopher-poetess of our Most Beloved, in quest of our uttermost, long have you searched your distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for your land of your memories and your dwelling-place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth.
And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to our weeping and our laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between our birth and our death.
And she answered:
People of Éirelese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?
Myriam of Lebanon: Philosopher-poetess from the Phoenician port city of Byblos
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