SAND AND FOAM(first part)

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  &a;a;lt;strong&a;a;gt;sand and foam(first part)&a;a;lt;/strong&a;a;gt;

  i aforever walking upon these shores,

  betwixt the sand and the foa

  the high tide will erasefoot-prints,

  and the wind will blow away the foa

  but the sea and the shore will rein

  forever.

  once i filledhand with st.

  then i ope and lo, the st was a wor

  and i closed and openedhand again, and behold there was a bird.

  and again i closed and openedhand, and in its hollow stood a n with a sad face, turned upward.

  and again i closedhand, and when i ope there was naught but st.

  but i heard a song of exceeding sweetness.

  it was but yesterday i thought self a fragnt quivering without rhythin the sphere of life.

  now i know that i athe sphere, and all life in rhythc fragnts ves within .

  they say toin their awakening, &a;a;a;quot;you and the world you live i a grain of sand upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea.&a;a;a;quot;

  and indreai say to the &a;a;a;quot;i athe infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand uponshore.&a;a;a;quot;

  only once have i been de te. it was when a n asked , &a;a;a;quot;who are you?&a;a;a;quot;

  the first thought of god was an angel.

  the first word of god was a n.

  we were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words.

  now howwe express the a of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?

  the sphinx spoke only once, and the sphinx said, &a;a;a;quot;a grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again.&a;a;a;quot;

  i heard the sphinx, but i did not uand.

  long did i lie in the dust of egypt, silent and unaware of the seasons.

  then the sun gavebirth, and i rose and walked upon the banks of the nile,

  singing with the days and dreang with the nights.

  and now the sun threads upoh a thousahat i y lie again in the dust of egypt.

  but behold a rvel and a riddle!

  the very sun that gatheredot scatter .

  still erect ai, and sure of foot do i walk upon the banks of the nile.

  rerance is a forbr&a;a;gt;&a;a;lt;/abbr&a;a;gt; of eting.

  fetfulness is a forof freedo

  we asure ti a to the vent of tless suns; and they asure ti by little es in their little pockets.

  now tell , hould we ever et at the sa plad the sa ti?

  space is not space between the earth and the sun to one who looks down frothe windows of the milky way.

  hunity is a river of light running frothe ex-eternity to eternity.

  do not the spirits who dwell iher envy n his pain?

  onway to the holy city i t another pilgriand i asked hi &a;a;a;quot;is this ihe way to the holy city?&a;a;a;quot;

  and he said, &a;a;a;quot;follow , and you will reach the holy city in a day and a night.&a;a;a;quot;

  and i followed hi and we walked ny days and ny nights, yet we did not reach the holy city.

  and what was tosurprise he &a;a;lt;tt&a;a;gt;&a;a;lt;/tt&a;a;gt;beca angry withbecause he had sled .

  make , oh god, the prey of the lion, ere you ke the rabbitprey.

  one y not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.

  my house says to , &a;a;a;quot;do not leave , for here dwells your past.&a;a;a;quot;

  and the road says to , &a;a;a;quot;e and follow , for i ayour future.&a;a;a;quot;

  and i say to bothhouse and the road, &a;a;a;quot;i have no past, nor have i a future. if i stay here, there is a going instaying; and if i go there is a staying ingoing. only love ah will ge all things.&a;a;a;quot;

  howi lose faith in the justice of life, when the drea of those who sleep upohers are not re beautiful than the drea of those who sleep upon the earth? strahe desire for certain pleasures is a part ofpain.

  seven tis have i despisedsoul:

  the first ti when i saw her beihat she ght attai.

  the sed ti when i saw her liing before the crippled.

  the third ti when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose the easy.

  the fourth ti wheed a wrong, and forted herself that others also it wrong.

  the fifth ti when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patieth.

  the sixth ti when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own sks.

  and the seventh ti when she sang a song of praise, and deed it a virtue.

  i aignorant of absolute truth. but i ahule beforeignorand therein lieshonour andreward.

  there is a space between ns igination and ns attaihat y only be traversed by his longing.

  paradise is there, behind that door, in theroo but i have lost the key.

  perhaps i have only slaid it.

  you are blind and i adeaf and du, so let us touch hands and uand.

  the signifian is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.

  so of us are like ink and so like paper.

  and if it were not for the blaess of so of us, so of us would be du;

  and if it were not for the whiteness of so of us, so of us would be blind.

  givean ear and i will give you a voice.

  our nd is a sponge; our heart is a strea

  is it not strahat st of us choose sug rather than running?

  when you long for blessings that you y not na, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then indeed yrowing with all things that grow, and rising toward yreater self.

  when one is drunk with a vision, he dee his faint expression of it the very wine.

  you drink wihat you y be intoxicated; and i drink that it y soberfrothat other wine.

  whencup is ety i resi&a;a;gt;?９9lib?&a;a;lt;/a&a;a;gt;gn self to its etiness; but when it is half full i resent its half-fullness.

  the reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he ot reveal to you.

  therefore, if you would uand hi listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.

  half of what i say is aningless; but i say it so that the other half y reach you.

  a sense of huur is a sense of proportion.

  my loneliness was born when n praisedtalkative faults and bladsilent virtues.

  when life does not find a sio sing her heart she produces a philosopher to speak her nd.

  a truth is to be known always, to be uttered sotis.

  the real in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.

  the voice of life i reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we y not feel lonely.

  when two won talk they say nothing; when one eaks she reveals all of life.

  frogs y bellow louder than bulls, but theythe plough in the field not turn the wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you ake shoes.

  only the du envy the talkative.

  if winter should say, &a;a;a;quot;spring is inheart,&a;a;a;quot; who would believe winter?

  every seed is a longing.

  should you really open your eyes and see, you would behold your ige in all iges.

  and should you open your ears and listen, you would hear your own voi all voices.

  it takes two of us to dver truth: oo utter it and oo uand it.

  though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent.

  many a doe is like a window pane. we see truth through it but it divides us frotruth.

  now let us play hide and seek. should you hide inheart it would not be difficult to find you. but should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for ao seek you. a won y veil her face with a sle.

  how noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.

  he who would uand a won, or dissect genius, or solve the stery of silence is the very n who would wake froa beautiful dreato sit at a breakfast table.

  i would walk with all those who walk. i would not stand still to watch the procession passing by.

  you owe re than gold to hiwho serves you. give hiof your heart or serve hi

  nay, we have not lived in vain. have they not built towers of our bones?

  let us not be particular aional. the poets nd and therpions tail rise in glory frothe sa earth.

  every dragon gives birth to a st. gee who slays it.

  trees are poe that the earth writes upon the sky. we fell thedown and turn theinto paper that we y rd our etiness.

  should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you st needs have knowledge and art and sic -- the knowledge of the sic of words, the art of being artless, and the gic of loving your readers.

  they dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.

  should a tree write its autobiography it would not be uhe history of a race.

  if i were to choose between the power of writing a poeand the ecstasy of a poeunwritten, i would choose the ecstasy. it is better poetry.

  but you and allneighbree that i always choose badly.

  poetry is not an opinion expressed. it is a song that rises froa bleeding wound or a sling uth.

  words are tiless. you should utter theor write thewith a knowledge of their tilessness.

  a poet is a dethroned king sitting ang the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an ige out of the ashes.

  poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the diary.

  in vain shall a poet seek the ther of the songs of his heart.

  once i said to a poet, &a;a;a;quot;we shall not know your worth until you die.&a;a;a;quot;

  and he answered saying, &a;a;a;quot;yes, death is always the revealer. and if indeed you would knowworth it is that i have re inheart than upontongue, and re indesire than inhand.&a;a;a;quot;

  if you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.

  poetry is wisdothat ents the heart.

  wisdois poetry that sings in the nd.

  if wuld entand at the sa ti sing in his nd,

  then in truth he would live in the shadow of god.

  inspiration will always sing; inspiration will never explain.

  we often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves y sleep.

  all our words are but crus that fall down frothe feast of the nd.

  thinking is always the stuling stoo poetry.

  a great singer is he who sings our silences.

  howyou sing if your uth be filled with food?

  how shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is filled with gold?

  they say the nightingale pierces his bosowith a thorn when he sings his love song.

  so do we all. how else should we sing?

  genius is but a robins song at the beginning of a slow spring.

  even the st winged spirit ot escape physiecessity.

  a dn is not less a si than you or self; only the instrunt on which he plays is a little out of tune.

  the song that lies silent in the heart of a ther sings upon the lips of her child.

  no longing reins unfulfilled.

  i have never agreed withother self wholly. the truth of the tter see to lie between us.

  your other self is always sorry for you. but your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.

  there is nle of soul and body save in the nds of those whose souls are asleep and whose bodies are out of tune.

  when you reach the heart of life you shall fiy in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty.

  we live only to dver beauty. all else is a forof waiting.

  sow a seed and the earth will yield you a flower. dreayour dreato the sky and it will bring you your beloved.

  the devil died the very day you were born.

  now you do not have to gh hell to et an angel.

  many a won borrows a ; very feuld possess it.

  if you would possess you st not clai

  when a ns hand touches the hand of a won they both touch the heart of eternity.

  love is the veil between lover and lover.

  every n loves two won; the one is the creation of his igination, and the other is not yet born.

  men who do not five won their little faults will never enjoy their great virtues.

  love that does not reself every day bees a habit and in turn a slavery.

  lovers erace that which is between therather than each other.

  love and doubt have never been on speaking ter.

  love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light.

  friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.

  if you do not uand your friend under all ditions you will never uand hi

  your st radiant garnt is of the other persons weaving;

  you st savoury al is that which you eat at the other persons table;

  your st fortable bed is iher persons house.

  now tell , howyou separate yourself frothe other person?

  your nd andheart will never agree until your nd ceases to live in nuers andheart in the st.

  we shall never uand one another until we reduce the language to seven words.

  how shallheart be unsealed unless it be broken?

  only great sorrreat joyreveal your truth.

  if you would be revealed you st either danaked in the sun, or carry your cross.

  should nature heed what we say of te no river would seek the sea, and no winter would turn t. should she heed all we say of thrift, how ny of us would be breathing this air?

  you see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.

  you are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;

  and you are free when there is no sun and no on and no star.

  you are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.

  but you are a slave to hiwhoyou love because you love hi

  and a slave to hiwho loves you because he loves you.

  we are all beggars at the gate of the tele, and eae of us receives his share of the bounty of the king wheers the tele, and when he goes out.

  but we are all jealous of one another, which is another way of belittling the king.

  you ot e beyond your appetite. the other half of the loaf belongs to the other person, and there should rein a little bread for the ce guest.

  if it were not for yuests all houses would be graves.

  said a gracious wolf to a sile sheep, &a;a;a;quot;will you not honour our house with a visit?&a;a;a;quot;

  and the sheep answered, &a;a;a;quot;we would have been hoo visit your house if it were not in your stoch.&a;a;a;quot;

  i stoppedguest ohreshold and said, &a;a;a;quot;nay, wipe not your feet as you enter, but as you go out.&a;a;a;quot;

  generosity is not in givihat which i need re than you do, but it is in givihat which you need re than i do.

  you are indeed charitable when you give, and while giving, turn your face away so that you y not see the shyness of the receiver.

  the differeween the richest n and the poorest is but a day of hunger and an hour of thirst.

  we often borrow froour torrows to pay our debts to our yesterdays.

  i too avisited by angels and devils, but i get rid of the

  when it is an angel i pray an old prayer, and he is bored;

  when it is a devil i it an old sin, and he passesby.

  after all this is not a bad prison; but i do not like this wall betweencell and theprisoners cell;

  yet i assure you that i do not wish to reproach the warder not the builder of the prison.

  those who give you a serpent when you ask for a fish, y have nothing but serpents to give. it is then generosity on their part.

  trickery sueeds sotis, but it always its suicide.

  you are truly a fiver when you five rderers who never spill blood, thieves who eal, and liars who utter no falsehood.

  he whoput his finger upon that which divides good froevil is he whotouch the very heof the garnt of god.

  if your heart is a volo how shall you expect flowers to blooin your hands?

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