The Philosopher's Soul Dwells In His Head,

The Sorrowful Spirit Finds Relaxation In Solitude. It Abhors People, As A Wounded Deer Deserts The Herd And Lives In A Cave Until It Is Healed Or Dead.

Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter’s Oven?

Seek Ye Counsel Of The Aged For Their Eyes Have Looked On The Faces Of The Years And Their Ears Have Hardened To The Voices Of Life. Even If Their Counsel Is Displeasing To You, Pay Heed To Them.

How Distant I Am From People When I Am With Them, And How Close When They Are Far Away.

I Would Not Exchange The Laughter Of My Heart For The Fortunes Of The Multitudes; Nor Would I Be Content With Converting My Tears, Invited By My Agonized Self, Into Calm. It Is My Fervent Hope That My Whole Life On This Earth Will Ever Be Tears And Laughter. Tears That Purify My Heart And Reveal To Me The Secret Of Life And Its Mystery, Laughter That Brings Me Closer To My Fellow Men; Tears With Which I Join The Broken-hearted, Laugher That Symbolizes Joy Over My Very Existence.