Those to whom worshiping is a window, to open but also to shut, have not yet visited the house of their souls whose windows are open from dawn to dawn.

He who denies his heritage, has no heritage

You cannot judge any man beyond your knowledge of him, and how small is your knowledge.

Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?

Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.

There are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree.