What is life?
Life is like a flower which dreams of opening
to show up its hidden jewel.
Life is comparable to the story of a caterpillar:
it crawls onto the dust, it goes through mutation stages,
and if it succeeds, becomes a beautiful and eternal butterfly.
One has crawled before, one was set free then, free like the wind.
And the wind has no shapes. This is freedom.
Life is like love.
No words can express it, for it is substantially abstract.
It is like a dream, it is ineffable.
So, I venture to dream about two butterflies stalking the wind,
embarked on the Odyssey of Life, far beyond the horizon of all senses.
But subtlety is the only path.
In opposition to roughness, subtlety is intrinsically poetical, somewhat discreet.
Subtlety reveals a play between the tense and the loose, the revealed and the hidden.
That is mystical adventure, since Life is poetry.
Nevertheless, to receive Life, something has to die before,
something has to fall into the void and become nothingness.
Little vision of Paradise
I slipped my eyes through the keyhole to Paradise
and I saw flowers as far as the eye could see,
beyond valleys and meadows.
Whomsoever will enter through the right door
will be living in the midst of those sweet eternal perfumes,
of those creatures who do not wilt and never die.
In order not to die, one should not be born,
as the Master of the Keys who dwells in all places and all times,
yet being of no place or time.
See the lilies but do not pick any,
lest they be torn out of their bed of virtue.
The flowers are beautiful only where they are,
in the raw and wild state.
This is perfection.
The subtleties of a pure soul make me so,
nostalgic of the place of sweet perfumes
where were invented the hearts in such a raw state.
These are as simple as water and wind!
Before being soiled by the world of lowlands,
they were transparent like spring water,
free to be, like the wind of love.
Pure souls remain as standing, despite all the threatening death.
The low world has only walls, small windows and dreams.
It's up to everyone to find the door which leads to the glorious light,
at the end of the road the valiant climbs.
He rises beyond our walls