Said the sun to the traveller

There is anguish in your voice and there are dark shadows around your eyes. This voice was given to you to sing songs of love and of joy. These eyes were your windows to boundless glory. There is deadwood where your heart was meant to be. These are the left overs of a life fatigued in chasing a mirage. Your legs are weary taking old mirages for new and endlessly chasing the vanishing panorama. Come, sit in thy own shade. There is no tree here but one that in your own heart has begun to sprout. There is no shade but thine own. With your own sacred blood will the plant of your life be watered. You chase love and think that you are falling in it. All chasing ceases once you fall in love - fall in love; do not fall to desire. But your eyes are tired and your head is heavy. It is, you feel, the begining of a long night. But do not despair. There is a season of flowers that waits for your soul to become a bed. Lilacs will bloom where the carcass of your empty dreams now lie. And light from the dawn of a fresh daring will fill the darkling crevices in your soul's valley. Plant a little sapling of a love reborn - of love that grows on the other's happiness, and of love that is happy to be. On your bosom will blossom a million chrysanthemum. And each flower will blossom into a million dreams. Each dream will free you from the desert chase. Put your trust in your dreams. Dreams are the only stuff worth living for; there is nothing to life except dreams -- dreams fulfilled and dreams unfulfilled. Anyone who shirks his dreams shirks his life.