I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.
Tie two birds together. They will not be able to fly, even though they now have four wings.
Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom. How do they learn it? They fall and falling, they're given wings.
Never be without remembrance of Him, for His remembrance gives strength and wings to the bird of the Spirit.
Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds' wings.
A strange passion is moving in my head My heart has become a bird which searches in the sky. Every part of me goes in different directions. Is it really so that the one I love is Everywhere?
A moment of happiness, you and I sitting on the verandah, apparently two, but one in soul, you and I. We feel the flowing water of life here, you and I, with the garden's beauty and the birds singing. The stars will be watching us, and we will show them what it is to be a thin crescent moon. You and I unselfed, will be together, indifferent to idle speculation, you and I. The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar as we laugh together, you and I. In one form upon this earth, and in another form in a timeless sweet land.
I am a bird of God's garden and I do not belong to this dusty world For a day or two they have put me here in this cage of my own body I did not come here of my own I will not return of my own to my own country.
No more words. In the name of this place we drink in with our breathing, stay quiet like a flower. So the nightbirds will start singing.
Make my heart, O heart of the universe, a divine bird that nests only on the throne of God.
When the rose is gone and the garden faded you will no longer hear the nightingale's song. The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil. The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing. If love withholds its strengthening care, the lover is left like a bird without care, the lover is left like a bird without wings. How will I be awake and aware if the light of the Beloved is absent? Love wills that this Word be brought forth.
While still in the cage of your being behold the spirit bird before it flies away.
Every bird will follow it's specie.
The Ripe FigNow that You live here in my chest,anywhere we sit is a mountaintop.And those other images,which have enchanted peoplelike porcelain dolls from China,which have made men and women weepfor centuries, even those have changed now.What used to be pain is a lovely benchwhere we can rest under the roses.A left hand has become a right.A dark wall, a window.A cushion in a shoe heel,the leader of the community!Now silence. What we sayis poison to someand nourishing to others.What we say is a ripe fig,but not every bird that flieseats figs.
Each has to enter the nest made by the other imperfect bird.
The feelings trembled and flapped in his chest like a bird newly put in a cage.
Oh, bird of my soul, fly away now, For I possess a hundred fortified towers.
Physical existence is so cramped.We grow old and bent over like embryos.Nine months passes;it is time to be born. The lamb wants to graze green daylight. There are ways of being born twice,of coming to where you fly,not individually like birds, but as the sun moves with his bride,sincerity.
Like the birds of the sea, men come from the ocean-the ocean of the soul. How could this bird, born from that sea, make his dwelling here?
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