HE WHO is too, busy doing good finds no time to be good.

I FILLED MY tray with whatever I had, and gave it to you. What shall I bring to your feet tomorrow, I wonder. I am like the tree that, at the end of the flowering summer, gazes at the sky with its lifted branches bare of their blossoms.
But in all my past offerings is there not a single flower made fadeless by the eternity of tears?
Will you remember it and thank me with your eyes when I stand before you with empty hands at the leave-taking of my summer days?

THE CENTRE is still and silent in the heart
of an eternal dance of circles.