I write to you the way a bird feels the wind gliding under his wings, the way the fire crackles with passionate heat to consume ever wildly, the way a root with infinite patience descends into the dark; I write to you the way the rain kisses the earth after a long summer, the way a monk prays to God in the solitude of his cell; I write to you the way wine ferments in darkness and wheat grows gold in the summer sun, the way dawn fills the heart with the still clarity of its light. I write to you because I love you and you have turned my life into a journey of love.
Myth is not dead if we still feel in our hearts something of the magic of a year that ends and one that begins, of a cycle returning, beginning again, filled with the power of renewal. This eternal recurrence is the essence of the most ancient myths; that the world has been ordained by divinity to return again and again as an emulation of the divine, and this to eternity.
A thinker is one who rides his solitude on lofty wings that take him up over and beyond mountains and cities, giving him eyes to see things those who dwell in society never dream of seeing. For that reason, when he speaks no one understands him, and when he comes back to society he must use the mask to be intelligible. If is both a curse and a blessing to go through the world in such a way, unseen, hidden.
The hyper sensitive will feel guilty for things they did not even do, they are always ripe for submission.
We can never be rid of the mystical impulse because science can never exhaust the mystery of life.
Without love even beauty becomes tiring and ultimately a burden.
This solitude, I cultivated it all my life so that it could, one day, be large enough to contain your presence.
Solitude, my sole companion, the only candle lighting the corners of my heart.
Poetry is the translation of the heat between our bodies, the gravity that pulls even stars from their orbit.
A poet lives a lonely life that he may shape birds out of his own heart that he sends flying into the deepest forests and over the highest mountains to enliven the mist of the world with the warmth of his song
There are things invisible whose presence is known only by the way they affect others such as the wind passing through or kindness for no reason given or the way your beauty makes light glow around your skin or the way my love bends the world in a hymn song for you
Like fresh morning dew my kisses sink into her neck, from her chin down to the hollow above her chest, going around to her collarbones, then to her nape at the back as I lift her dark hair, falling slowly to the expanse between her shoulder blades…
…my kisses circle her neck like a Sufi turns ecstatic and feverish, lost in prayer as with each turn he falls deeper lost in God.
You will feel happy to work less only if you feel that your work is imposed on you, that it is a bane. But in a world where work is a source of joy, where it is beneficial for yourself and the community, it is nonsensical to work less or more, for work, then, is an expression of your being, and is at one with life, it is a passion. As it now stands, we suffer work as an affliction, and as something that separates us from life and from true community. We are ridden with feelings of guilt if we do not perform and submit to the norms, and to perform we feel that we need to sacrifice ourselves, burning ourselves on the altar of the work-god.
As though life is a fog, a fading dream, vanishing as we reach to touch it, images shivering in the water, flowing away, already gone when barely seen.
We live in the afterglow of things that were, eclipsed before being fully embodied, things filled with decay even as they flourished, things that are always leaving only to lead us on and on to a nowhere that exists only in our hearts.
The heaviest love is weightless and impotent. The strongest attachments are thin as the wind.
In this vast, endless openness, I pray, teach me surrender, let me become love. The only journey is the one within, all else is illusory.
What is a poet?—a poem that plays hide and seek with itself; a poem that needs long walks in the sun and rain for it to find itself; a poem that takes a great deal of time to decipher the light in its darkness; a poem that is wasteful with much of its life for it to experience a few precious moments; a poem akin to an open wound, aching and pouring. A poet is a man without a face, standing in the crowd, in his heart feeling and recording everything. A poet is a sky buried in a man, filled with endless distances. A poet is a failed attempt. A poet is an unreachable man. A poet is not ink but life made invisible. A poet is no one. A poet is.