My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.
The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.
The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.
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