for we women are not only the deities of the household fire, but the flame of the soul itself.

Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

Music fills the infinite between two souls. This has been muffled by the mist of our daily habits.

The best kind of wealth is to give up inordinate desires.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

God, the Great Giver, can open the whole universe to our gaze in the narrow space of a single land.