The Morning Wind Spreads Its Fresh Smell.

If You Are Irritated By Every Rub, How Will Your Mirror Be Polished?

You Try To Be Faithful And Sometimes You're Cruel. You Are Mine. Then, You Leave. Without You, I Can't Cope. And When You Take The Lead, I Become Your Footstep. Your Absence Leaves A Void. Without You, I Can't Cope. You Have Disturbed My Sleep, You Have Wrecked My Image. You Have Set Me Apart. Without You, I Can't Cope.

Botha Swimmer And A Drowned Man Are In The Water; The Latter Is Borne By The Water And Controlled By It, While The Swimmer Is Borne Along By His Own Power And Of His Own Volition. Every Movement Made By The Drowned Man - Indeed, Every Act And Word That Issue From Him - Comes From The Water, Not From Him... The Saints Are Like This. They Have Died Before Death.

Inside Of Us, There's A Continual Autumn. Our Leaves Fall And Are Blown Out Over The Water.

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.