Nor shall derision prove powerful against those who listen to

Host: The rain fell in thin, silver threads across the city, veiling the streetlights in a haze of amber and smoke. Inside the small café at the corner of the square, the smell of wet asphalt mingled with coffee and old books. The clock on the wall ticked in slow, measured rhythm, like a heartbeat forgotten by time.

Jack sat by the window, his coat still damp, his eyes fixed on the reflection of passing cars. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands wrapped around a cup, the steam rising between them like a veil of unspoken thoughts.

Host: The moment was quiet, almost sacred. The world outside hurried by, but here — in this tiny refuge — words would soon test the depth of their souls.

Jeeny: (softly) “Khalil Gibran once said, ‘Nor shall derision prove powerful against those who listen to humanity or those who follow in the footsteps of divinity, for they shall live forever. Forever.’”

Jack: (leans back, a faint smirk) “Forever, huh? That’s the kind of word poets use when they’ve run out of patience with reality.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the word reality uses when it’s trying to remind us it’s not the whole story.”

Host: A flicker of light from a passing car danced across Jack’s face, tracing the lines of weariness that years had carved. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered — not with argument, but with faith.

Jack: “You really believe in that — in divinity, in listening to humanity as if it’s some eternal protection spell? Look around, Jeeny. People mock, destroy, forget. History is littered with the corpses of the good-hearted.”

Jeeny: “And yet, their voices still echo.”

Jack: “Echo, yes — but only because we’ve got microphones and archives. If it weren’t for technology, even their echoes would die.”

Jeeny: (shakes head gently) “You think eternity is in the data we preserve, Jack. But eternity lives in the hearts we touch.”

Host: The rain outside grew stronger, beating against the glass like a drum of restless truth.

Jack: “Tell that to Socrates. To Joan of Arc. They followed their ‘divinity,’ listened to ‘humanity,’ and got a death sentence in return. Derision was powerful enough to burn them, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we still speak their names, centuries later. Isn’t that what ‘forever’ means? Their bodies died, but their essence — their courage, their truth — outlived their executioners.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the table, as if measuring the weight of every word.

Jack: “Names remembered are not the same as lives eternal. We make heroes out of them because we need stories, not because they’re immortal. Their memory serves our psychology, not their salvation.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, eyes burning softly) “Then what about those who still act out of love? The doctor in Aleppo who refused to leave his hospital even when the bombs fell — he didn’t do it for story or fame. He did it for humanity. That’s not psychology, Jack. That’s the divine walking through the ruin.”

Jack: “And he died, didn’t he?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But his act will live in every child saved by a doctor who heard of his sacrifice. That’s how eternity breathes — from one act of love to another.”

Host: A pause. The steam between them had faded, replaced by tension, by truths pressing against the air like unseen storms.

Jack: (low voice) “You romanticize too much. Humanity isn’t divine; it’s a survival machine. We act good because guilt is cheaper than chaos. You talk about eternity like it’s a hymn, but it’s just evolution’s trick.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Then how do you explain the mother who risks her life to save a stranger’s child? There’s no evolutionary benefit there. That’s pure spirit — unreasoned, luminous.”

Host: The word luminous hung in the air like a small sun, defying the darkness that pressed against the window.

Jack: “You think spirit defies logic, but maybe it’s just instinct in a pretty dress. Maybe we want to believe we’re divine because it’s easier than accepting we’re temporary.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe forever isn’t about time at all. Maybe it’s about depth — about how deeply a moment can live.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm easing into a gentle murmur, like a heartbeat calming after grief.

Jeeny: “When Gibran said ‘they shall live forever,’ I think he meant their truths become part of the human river — flowing, reshaping, nourishing. Even when we mock them, their light remains.”

Jack: “Light fades too, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but it travels endlessly. Even when a star dies, its light still crosses the universe for centuries. Isn’t that what he meant? That divine humanity — once set in motion — can’t be destroyed by derision?”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — for the first time, uncertainty pierced his armor. He looked out at the street, where a homeless man bent to help another pick up a fallen bag of apples, the fruit rolling like small planets through the rain.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe you’re right about that. Maybe derision can’t kill what doesn’t depend on applause.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. Humanity and divinity — they survive because they don’t need to be believed in to exist.”

Host: The café had grown quieter. The barista wiped the counter, the clock ticked past midnight, and the streetlights flickered like old memories refusing to die.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the world only remembers power — kings, wars, money. But lately… I see how quietly people remember kindness. Like it’s the only thing that doesn’t rot.”

Jeeny: “Kindness is the language of eternity, Jack. It speaks long after words are forgotten.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped Jeeny, half tear, half light. Jack’s smile was small, almost unwilling, but sincere. The storm outside had weakened into a mist, and through it, the first pale hint of dawn crept between the clouds.

Jack: “So… what you’re saying is, divinity is just humanity that refuses to give up?”

Jeeny: “Maybe divinity is humanity at its most unbroken.”

Host: The light touched their faces, painting them in silver and gold, like a blessing whispered by the morning itself.

Jack: “You think anyone ever really lives forever?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “I think love does. And those who live through love — they don’t just die, they transform. That’s what Gibran meant. Forever isn’t a place, Jack. It’s a state of giving.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The sky opened, clean and new, like a page waiting to be written upon. Jack reached for his cup, his hand brushing against Jeeny’s. No words followed — just silence, deep and alive, the kind that feels like an eternity in itself.

Host: In that moment, as the sunlight found them through the mist, they both seemed to understand — derision might wound, mockery might echo, but neither can kill what is rooted in love or truth. Those who listen to humanity, those who walk with divinity — they do not merely exist.

Host: They live. Forever.