Khalil Gibran, the famous Lebanon poet was waiting for me in a kiosk across the roundabout street of Villa-Nova city in Baucau. I saw him through his cover, a tightly wrapped book in plastic yet it is dusty because the cars and motorbike were passed by throwing its dusty greeting.
With some notes of Dollars I left for the kiosk owner, I brought Gibran home with me, barely knowing him. Together, we rode the microlete and look at each other with hidden smile trying to avoid the questioned look of other people in the microlete. I guess Gibran might be another storyteller I would spend my long night with in silence.
It’s 8 pm at home. I finished my dinner. The dishes are done. I knew I was ready to join Mr. Gibran in my bedroom.
“Good evening Mr. Gibran” I said while opening the plastic wrap off him. It felt like uncovering the veil of the bride for the first time. How awkward yet exciting to get to know him page by page before the first page. His title. Secrets of the Heart .
“So you are a poet Mr. Gibran,” I said and keep reading him through the page. Reading every line of the verses. I completely lost in every words of him.
“Mr. Gibran, how could words transformed in such They are hypnotically romantic and ironic at the same time. a magical way that it could touch the mind and soul? Even God becomes closer to you in words.”
“Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth,” Gibran said in smile.
That night we end up sailing in the ocean of poetry.