A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write love, it broke.
Inside of us, there's a continual autumn. Our leaves fall and are blown out over the water.
By God, when you see your beauty you will be the idol of yourself.
In every religion there is love, yet love has no religion.
The fluteplayer puts breath into a flute, and who makes the music? Not the flute. The Fluteplayer!
My friend, you thought you lost Him; that all your life you've been separated from Him. Filled with wonder, you've always looked outside for Him, and haven't searched within your own house.