Every one of us has in him a continent of undiscovered character. Blessed is he who acts as Columbus to his own soul.
O soul, you worry too much. You have seen your own strength. You have seen your own beauty. You have seen your golden wings. Of anything less, why do you worry? You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
My Place is the placeless, my trace is the traceless; ‘I’ is neither body nor soul, for ‘I’ belong to the soul of the Beloved. I have put duality away, I have seen that the two worlds are one; One I seek, One I know, One I see, One I call.
He who knows his soul knows this truth: “I am beyond everything finite; I now see that the Spirit, alone in a space with its ever-new joy, has expressed itself as the vast body of nature…I am the wisdom and power that sustain all creation.”
For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time. He has not come into being, does not come into being, and will not come into being. He is unborn, eternal, ever-existing and primeval. He is not slain when the body is slain.
Like the waves in great rivers, there is no turning back of that which has previously been done…The soul is bound with the fetters made of the fruit of good and evil.
One who identifies himself with his soul regards bodily transmigration of his soul at death fearlessly, like changing one cloth for another.
Rain showers my spirit and waters my soul.
