'WHAT LANGUAGE is thine, O sea?'
'The language of eternal question.'
'What language is thy answer, O sky?'
'The language of eternal silence.'

YOU ALWAYS stand alone beyond the stream of my songs.
The waves of my tunes wash your feet but I know not how to reach
them.
This play of mine with you is a play from afar.
It is the pain of separation that melts into melody through my flute.
I wait for the time when your boat crosses over to my shore and you take my flute into your own hands.

THOSE WHO walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under their tread, covering the tender green of the earth with their footprints in blood;
Let them rejoice, and thank thee, Lord, for the day is theirs.
But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer and bear the burden of power, and hide their faces and stifle their sobs in the dark.
For every throb of their pain has pulsed in the secret depth of the night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great silence.
And the morrow is theirs.
O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.