Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.

Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds' wings.

There is a basket of fresh bread on your head, yet you go door to door asking for crusts.

Don't put blankets over the drum! Open completely. Let your spirit ear listen to the green dome's passionate murmur.

In the slaughterhouse of love, they kill only the best, none of the weak or deformed. Don't run away from this dying. Whoever's not killed for love is dead meat.

My longing for you keeps me in this moment My passion gives me courage

I do not know who lives here in my chest, or why the smile comes. I am not myself, more the bare green knob of a rose that lost every leaf and petal to the morning wind.