The great Sufi mystic and poet, Jalaluddin Rumi, said: "The religion of love is distinct from all others; the lovers of God have a religion and a faith all their own."
What is this religion of love? It has no name. Neither does it have any nationality. It is beginningless, and without end. It originates in the heart...
Love calls, and Love responds.
... in countless hearts, throughout the universe, this religion lives, and supplies the world with Love.
When the poet sang me the fall of Troy, his story told of the king’s daughter Cassandra, who, foresaw what would happen and tried to prevent the Trojans from letting the great horse into the city, but no one would listen to her: it was a curse laid on her, to see the truth and say it and not be heard. It is a curse laid on women more often than on men. Men want the truth to be theirs, their discovery and property.
Kalbinizde çözümlenmemiş olan şeylere karşı sabırlı olun ve sorunları sevmeye çalışın. Şimdi sorunları yaşayın. Belki de aşamalı olarak, farkına bile varmadan yanıtlarla birlikte yaşayacaksınız.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
“I looked about me. Luminous points glowed in the darkness. Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks. I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers. They talked about illness, money, shabby domestic cares. And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny. Old bureaucrat, my comrade, it is not you who are to blame. No one ever helped you to escape. You, like a termite, built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce. You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to forget your own fate as a man. You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened, and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.”