This Being Human Is A Guest House.

Every Forest Branch Moves Differently In The Breeze, But As They Sway They Connect At The Roots.

Without The Frown Of Clouds And Lightning, The Vines Would Be Burned By The Smiling Sun.

There Is A Field Beyond All Notions Of Right And Wrong. Come, Meet Me There.

People Are Distracted By Objects Of Desire, And Afterward Repent Of The Lust They've Indulged, Because They Have Indulged With A Phantom And Are Left Even Farther From Reality Than Before.

I Want To Sing Like The Birds Sing, Not Worrying About Who Hears Or What They Think.