He returns years later, has no demands. He wants only one, most precious thing: To see, purely and simply, without name, Without expectations, fears, or hopes, At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.

Leaves glowing in the sun, zealous hum of bumblebees, From afar, from somewhere beyond the river, echoes of lingering voices And the unhurried sounds of a hammer gave joy not only to me. Before the five senses were opened, and earlier than any beginning They waited, ready, for all those who would call themselves mortals, So that they might praise, as I do, life, that is, happiness.

Consolation Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.

You who think of us: they lived only in delusion... Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!

We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.