You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable. You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons. Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.

Those who give you a serpent when you ask for a fish, may have nothing but serpents to give.

Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the same well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

In the depth of my soul there is a wordless song.

Mother: the most beautiful word on the lips of mankind.

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.