Beauty Is Life When Life Unveils Her

Those To Whom Worshiping Is A Window, To Open But Also To Shut, Have Not Yet Visited The House Of Their Souls Whose Windows Are Open From Dawn To Dawn.

The Mute Grain Turns To Love Songs When Swallowed By The Nightingale.

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Extreme Torture Is Mute, And So We Sat Silent, Petrified, Like Columns Of Marble Buried Under The Sand Of An Earthquake. Neither Wished To Listen To The Other Because Our Heart-threads Had Become Weak And Even Breathing Would Have Broken Them.

Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter’s Oven?