The Ripe FigNow that You live here in my chest,anywhere we sit is a mountaintop.And those other images,which have enchanted peoplelike porcelain dolls from China,which have made men and women weepfor centuries, even those have changed now.What used to be pain is a lovely benchwhere we can rest under the roses.A left hand has become a right.A dark wall, a window.A cushion in a shoe heel,the leader of the community!Now silence. What we sayis poison to someand nourishing to others.What we say is a ripe fig,but not every bird that flieseats figs.

There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you? You feel the separation from the Beloved. Invite Him to fill you up, embrace the fire.

The testing of good and bad is in order that the gold may boil and bring the scum to the top.

Muhammad says, 'Love of one's country is a part of the faith.' But don't take that literally! Your real 'country' is where you're heading, not where you are. Don't misread that hadith.

Love rushed into my veins emptying me of myself. Now filled with the Beloved my only possession is my name.

Daylight, full of small dancing particles. Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?

The Past, the Future, O dear, is from you; you should regard both these as one.