“My heart is a gray coal, O Khalil!” sighed Salim Awad, who had lost at love. “For a moment it glowed in the breath of love. It is turned cold and gray; it lies forsaken in a vast night.”
“For a moment,” mused Khalil Khayyat, sighing, but yet smiling, “it glowed in the breath of love. Ah, Salim,” said he, “there is yet the memory of that ecstasy!”
“My heart is a brown leaf: it flutters down the wind of despair; it is caught in the tempest of great woe.”
“It has known the sunlight and the tender breeze.”
Salim looked up; his face was wet and white; his black hair, fallen in disarray over his forehead, was damp with the sweat of grief; his eyes, soulful, glowing in deep shadows, he turned to some place high and distant. “My heart,” he cried, passionately, clasping his hands, “is a thing that for a moment lived, but is forever dead! It is in a grave of night and heaviness, O Khalil, my friend!”
“It is like a seed sown,” said Khalil Khayyat.
“To fail of harvest!”
“Nay; to bloom in compassionate deeds. The flower of sorrow is the joy of the world. In the broken heart is the hope of the hopeless; in the agony of poets is their sure help. Hear me, O Salim Awad!” the old man continued, rising, lifting his lean brown hand, his voice clear, vibrant, possessing the quality of prophecy. “The broken heart is a seed sown by the hand of the Beneficent and Wise. Into the soil of life He casts it that there may be a garden in the world. With a free, glad hand He sows, that the perfume and color of high compassion may glorify the harvest of ambitious strife; and progress is the fruit of strife and love the flower of compassion. Yea, O Salim, poet, the child of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I, the broken heart is a seed sown gladly, to flower in this beauty. Blessed,” Khalil Khayyat concluded, smiling, “oh, blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!”
“Blessed,” asked Salim Awad, wondering, “be the Breaker of Hearts?”
“Yea, O Salim,” answered Khalil Khayyat, speaking out of age and ancient pain; “even blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!”