You rave about the Holy Place (Masjid al-Haram) and say you've visited God's garden but where is your bunch of flowers? There is some merit in the suffering you have endured but what a pity you have not discovered the Makkah thats inside

I am your own voice echoing off the walls of God

Silence gives answers.

There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again.

Last night my teacher taught me the lesson of Poverty: Having nothing and wanting nothing.

I am so close, I may look distant.

Inside the Great Mystery that is, we don't really own anything. What is this competition we feel then, before we go, one at a time, through the same gate?