What Shall I Say, O Muslims, I

God Picks Up The Reed-flute World And Blows. Each Note Is A Need Coming Through One Of Us, A Passion, A Longing Pain. Remember The Lips Where The Wind-breath Originated, And Let Your Note Be Clear. Don't Try To End It. Be Your Note.

What A Piece Of Bread Looks Like Depends On Whether You Are Hungry Or Not.

This Poetry. I Never Know What I'm Going To Say. I Don't Plan It. When I'm Outside The Saying Of It, I Get Very Quiet And Rarely Speak At All.

There Is Little One Can Say About Love. It Has To Be Lived, And It's Always In Motion.

Everyone Sees The Unseen In Proportion To The Clarity Of His Hear.