181
My flower of the day dropped its petals forgotten.
In the evening it ripens into a golden fruit of memory.

182
I am like the road in the night listening to the footfalls of its
memories in silence.

183
The evening sky to me is like a window, and a lighted lamp, and a
waiting behind it.

184
He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

185
I am the autumn cloud, empty of rain, see my fulness in the field
of ripened rice.

186
They hated and killed and men praised them.
But God in shame hastens to hide its memory under the green
grass.

187
Toes are the fingers that have forsaken their past.

188
Darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death.