In Winter the bare boughs that seem to sleep Work covertly, preparing for their Spring.

Neither this body am I, nor soul, Nor these fleeting images passing by, Nor concepts and thoughts, mental images, Nor yet sentiments and the psyche's labyrinth. Who then am I? A consciousness without origin, Not born in time, nor begotten here below. I am that which was, is and ever shall be, A jewel in the crown of the Divine Self, A star in the firmament of the luminous One.

I am the servant of the Qur'an as long as I have life. I am the dust on the path of Muhammad, the Chosen One.

You are the root of heaven, the morning star, the bright moon, the house of endless Love

Lovers don't meet in the end, they are in each other forever.

Flow down and down in always widening rings of being.

We must die to become true human beings.