YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,' said the dewdrop to the lake.

Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water, sings the pebbles into perfection.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.