There is no worse sickness for the soul, o you who are proud, than this pretense of perfection.
Your legs will get heavy and tired. Then comes a moment of feeling the wings you've grown, lifting.
There is a basket of fresh bread on your head, yet you go door to door asking for crusts.
There's no need to travel anywhere. Journey within yourself.
If you find the mirror of the heart dull, the rust has not been cleared from its face.
If you become a helper of hearts, springs of wisdom will flow from your heart.