The gentle tremor of a peacock woman

Spring in thin haze

That day...

there were round words those that rolled in between us

from your side of the table towards mine

when winter was melting away

it is true, it is true, you then said,

as if truth were what we were after

we talked of setting each other free

as if freedom were what one lacked

your lips, the smell of new books, your voice

although I never asked what you most adored

that day when winter was fading away

taking another sip you already knew

missing me was not going to be easy

and then I poured you yet another cup

waiting for that winter to turn into spring

My resting place

Each and every one of us must have a resting place somewhere.

The resting place of my soul is a beautiful grove where my knowledge of you lives. 

(Extract from one of Gibran's letters dated 8th November 1908)

For you, my spring