Feathers in the dust lying lazily content have forgotten their sky.
The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.
The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny of its well-wisher.
We gain freedom when we have paid the full price for our right to live.
Your careless gifts of a moment , like the meteors of an autumn night,catch fire the depth of my being.
The faith waiting in the heart of a seed promises a miracle of life which it cannot prove at once.
Spring hesitates at winter’s door,but the mango blossom rashly runs out to him before her time and meets her doom.
The world is the ever-changing foam that floats on the surface of a sea of silence.
The two separated shores mingle their voices in a song of unfathomed tears.
As a river in the sea,work finds its fulfilment in the depth of leisure.
I lingered on my way till thy cherry tree lost its blossom,but the azalea brings to me,my love, thy forgiveness.
Thy shy little pomegranate bud,blushing to-day behind her veil , will burst into a passionate flower to-morrow when I am away.
The clumisiness of power spoils the key,and uses the pickaxe.
Brith is from the mystery of night into the greater mystery of day.
These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of bours,and not to reach any destination.
Migratory songs wing from my heart and seck their nests in your voice od love.
The sea of danger,doubt and denial around man’s little island of certainty challenges him to dare the unknown.
Love punishes when it forgives,and injured beauty by its awful silence.
You live alone and unrecompensed because they are afraid of your great worth.
The same sun is newly born in new lands in a ring of endless dawns.
God’s world is ever renewed by death,a Titan’s ever crushed by its own existence.
The glow-worm while exploring the dust never knows that stars are in the sky.
The tree is of to-day,the flower is old , it brings with it the message of the immemorial seed.
Each rose that comes brings me greetings from the Rose of an eternal spring.
God honours me when Iwork,He loves me when I sing.
My love of to-day finds no home in the nest deserted by yesterday"s love.
The fire of pain traces for my soul a luminous path across her sorrow.
The grass survives the hill through its resurrections from countless deaths.
Thou hast vanished from my reach leaving an impalpable touch in the blue of the sky,an invisible image in the wind moving among the shadows.
In pity for the desolate branch spring leaves to it a kiss that fluttered in a lonely leaf.
The sky shadow in the garden loves the sun in silence, Flowers guess the secret,and smile,while the leaves whisper.
I leave no trace of wings in the air,but i am glad I have had my flight.
The fireflies,twinkling among leaves,make the stars wonder.
The moutain remains unmoved its seeming defeat by the mist.
While the rose said to the sun,“I shall ever remember thee,”her petals fell to the dust.
Hills are the earth’s gesture of despair for the unreachable.
Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me, O Beauty,i am greatful.
The world knows that the few are more than the many.
Let not my love be a burden on you,my friend, know that it pays itself.
Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and is connect to vanish when the sun comes out.
Beauty is truth’s smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.
The dew-drop knows the sun only within its own tiny orb.
Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hives of all ages,swarming in the air,hum round my heart and seek my voice.
The desert is imprisoned the wall of its unbounded barrenness.
In the thrill of little leaves I see the air"s invisible dance,and in their glimmering the secret heart-beats of the sky.
You are like a flowering tree,amazed when i praise you for your gifts.
The earth’s scarifical fire flames up in her trees, scattering sparks in flowers.
Forests,the clouds of earth,hold up to the sky their silence,and clouds from above come down in resonant showers.
The world speaks to me in pictures,my soul answers in music.
The sky tells its beads all night on the countless stars in memory of the sun.
The darkness of night,like pain,is dumb,the darkness of dawn,like peace,is silent.
Pride engraves his frowns in stones,love offers her surrender in flowers.
The obsequious brush curtails truth in deference to the canvas which is narrow.
The hill in its longing for the far-away sky wishes to be like the cloud with its endless urge of seeking.
To justify their own spilling of ink they spell the day as night.
Profit smiles on goodness when the good is profitable.
In its swelling pride the bubble doubts the truth of the sea,and laughs and brusts into emptiness.
Love is an endless mystery,for it has nothing else to explain it.
My clouds,sorrowing in the dark,forget that they themselves have hidded the sun.
Man discovers his own wealth when God comes to ask gifts of him.
You leave your memory as a flame to my lonely lamp of scparation.
I came to offer thee a flower, but thou must have all my garden，it is thine.
The picture-a memory of light treasured by the shadow.
It is easy to make faces at the sun，He is exposed by his own light in all directions.
Love remains a secret even when spoken，for only a lover Truly knows that he is loved.
History slowly smothers its truth，but hastily struggles to revive it in the terrible penance of pain.
My work is rewarded in daily wages, I wait for my final value in love.
Beauty knows to say:“Enough,”barbarism clamours for still more.
God loves to see in me,not his servant,but himself who serves all.
The darkness of night is in harmony with day,the morning of mist is discordant.
In the bounteous time of roses love is wine, -it is food in the famished hour when their petals are shed.
An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet:“Are we not of the same soil,my love?”
I am able to love my God because He gives me freedom to deny Him.
My untuned strings beg for music in their anguished cry of shame.
The worm thinks it strange and foolish that man does not eat his books.
The clouded sky today bears the vision of the shadow of a divine sadness on the forehead of brooding eternity.
The shade of my tree is for passers-by,its fruit for the one for whom I wait.
