Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?
Our anxiety does not come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it.
Your joy can fill you only as deeply as your sorrow has carved you.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond.
He who denies his heritage, has no heritage