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

If it were not for guests all houses would be graves.

I use hate as a weapon to defend myself; had I been strong, I would never have needed that kind of weapon.

At ebb tide I wrote a line upon the sand, and gave it all my heart and all my soul. At flood tide I returned to read what I had inscribed and found my ignorance upon the shore.

I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires.

Make me, oh God, the prey of the Lion, ere you make the rabbit my prey

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.