There is no worse sickness for the soul, o you who are proud, than this pretense of perfection.
RumiLove rushed into my veins emptying me of myself. Now filled with the Beloved my only possession is my name.
RumiThere is no worse sickness for the soul, o you who are proud, than this pretense of perfection.
RumiLove rushed into my veins emptying me of myself. Now filled with the Beloved my only possession is my name.
Rumi