My fancies are fireflies Specks of living light twinkling in the dark.
Night's darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.
Who are you, a hundred years from today, reading my poetry with curiosity?
The greed for fruit misses the flower.
The cure for all the illness of life is stored in the inner depth of life itself, the access to which becomes possible when we are alone. This solitude is a world in itself, full of wonders and resources unthought of. It is absurdly near; yet so unapproachably distant.
In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height In the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.