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The humble understand that hell is their proper abode
and they measure their worth in grains of ash.

Were it not for the questioning of others,  
they could not bear the impudence of speech.  
The clothes on their backs are borrowed;  
their belongings, a momentary indulgence.

Their own names are a token of mercy,  
and the dust they tread, a constant reproof.  
For the humble see themselves as they would be:  
were it not for the mercy of God's grace.

Yet seeing themselves as handiworks of the Beloved --  
and knowing perfection proceeds from perfection --

The gnat begins to flap his eagle's wings!  
the kitten lets out a lion's roar!  
the ant gallops on the field of battle!  
and the drop merges with the deep, wide ocean!

The wretched one looks to himself, sees past himself --  
finds the fabric of which he is made --  
and the Tailor of that human garment.

Should a man fashioned of dust make any claims?  
Can the mind, whose own workings are mystery,  
assert the right to unfold Mystery?

Our tongues were fashioned by neither hand nor art;  
it behooves us to ask the Maker of their proper use.

Humility is when a pupil seeing himself as pupil:  
submissive and quiet before the Teacher's call.

As dust, we know the earth to be our home,  
from which we arose, to which we return.  
As His, we know Paradise to be our destiny.

"And now do I say, `Verily we are from God,  
and to Him shall we return.'"

A drop of ink has little reason to boast,  
should the poet's stroke immortalize a verse.  
For the drop knows: even as they praise him,  
their accolades belong to Another.

When the smell of rain  
is fuller than the rain itself...

When one drops fall  
and then a thousand;  
when the first bolt  
divides the sky;  
when a clap resounds  
like the Hands of God;  
and the water on your lips  
fell from Heaven...

After the fury and the darkness  
will shine every color  
that eyes can see.

If a candle approach the Sun,  
how can it complain of its smallness,  
its feebleness, its weakness?

Alone in the dark, it weeps and pines.  
Even it shines -- but to no avail.  
O futile, feeble candle!  
If truly you aim for the Sun,  
how will you complain?

With each step:  
your tears flow stronger  
your light grows weaker  
even your steps will fail...

  For these are the signs of progress!

One who stands before the Sun  
must lose all trace of self --  
but not through effort or intention:  
any more than a runner  
intends to lose his breath.

And when you find the Sun,  
there can be no more sorrow --  
even as your light dims  
and your faculties recede...

  He who finds the Sun knows only glory.

What cup is there more bitter than Time?  
All life's beauty, lain in the dust;  
all tomorrow's hopes, forgotten.  
To our lips we raise a vinegared tang,  
where only yesterday, there was wine.

Trust not the deceit of color or song.  
To the eyes, a wondrous thing;  
to the ears, a paean of heaven.  
Already the Puppeteer readies his box,  
where he hides them all before long.

Yet, in the lover's heart lies a secret.  
A knowledge unknown to tongues;  
a truth hidden even from minds.  
That in the heart of pain lies a door,  
one step beyond grief and regret:

That if we had not loved, we should not hurt;  
that if we'd been not warm, we would not shiver.  
All bitterness we taste is in memory of sweet;  
all longing we feel, a proof of union.

For this terrible pain we call our life,  
is knowledge that the soul knows of better.

It is written:  
  "Verily, we are from God,  
  and to Him shall we return."

If a wise man speaks to a fool,  
he will use the fool's language --  
lest the language of the wise  
lead him to greater folly.

Yet if the fool pays too much heed  
to the words and forms adopted,  
he will mostly see in them  
the shape of his own reflection...

He should wonder less the form,  
and more what could not fit it:

  Forget the drop, drying on your nose;  
  ponder the clouds and thunder.

Only the soft rains do I hear...  
The sheets of water on my back;  
the thunder and wind.

For all of the noise  
there is the deepest silence.  
My footfalls are a clamor.

I walk the shores  
of a swollen river,  
the nighttime at my back.

We have always sought Truth.  
But the terrible irony is:  
In its pursuit, we haven't its aid.

That is: We cannot use  
a Truth we do not know  
to measure those we think we've found.

Thus history is replete  
with such cases of irony;  
of believing we already know  
the name, or the face  
of Whom we seek.

We imagine it will come  
from kings or royal lineage;  
when it appeared from a carpenter  
of unknown descent.

Or we believe it can be told  
by learned men and scholars;  
when it came from a desert nomad,  
illiterate and cast out.

We look to men of virtue  
or a proven character;  
when deliverance came  
from the hands of a killer.

Or we long for personages  
of fame and great reknown;  
when the final word  
was the word of a prisoner.

If history has taught us anything:  
In matters of Truth and wisdom,  
never trust your expectations.

To me,  
my days are as diamonds.  
The moments of my life  
are a precious gold;  
the minutes and the hours -- priceless.

I should not sell them cheaply.  
If I do not have time  
for what concerns me most,  
then who has my time?  
And at what price did I barter it away?

A loving Creator  
has created this mote of love.  
My seconds are the soul of the gift.  
They are, in fact, all that I am.  
There can never be a dearer possession.

O, do not waste my days  
in concern of where I am going!  
or even of what I have been.  
The Lover has summoned His friends.  
Relax... enjoy the relationship.

It led the way before me:  
cool, and dark  
an unending ribbon of night  
stretching to meet the horizon.

Its waters had captured an image of heaven --  
toying with its lights,  
setting the stars to dancing  
and making of the moon  
  a disk of liquid silver.

What fish gathered below,  
I wondered?  
what denizens of the mighty river  
to contemplate my evening ride?

Yet the boat leapt on, quick prow  
slicing through the splashing black;  
my face catching the wind  
and those untamed waters, my soul.

Life hammers its minute nails  
into the houses of bone in which we live.  
Did you think your coffin made of wood,  
awaiting construction on some future day?

It should be so easy to see:  
this coffin I carry around with me:  
206 tiny timbers sewn by ligaments  
waiting for me to die.