I Use Hate As A Weapon To

The Brooks Flow To Their Lover, The Sea, And The Flowers Smile At The Object Of Their Passion, The Light. The Mist Rolls Down To Its Beloved, The Valley. And I? In Me Is What Brooks Do Not Know, What Flowers Do Not Hear, What The Mist Does Not Apprehend. You See Me Alone In My Love, Solitary In My Yearning.

The True Wealth Of A Nation Lies Not In It's Gold Or Silver But In It's Learning, Wisdom And In The Uprightness Of Its Sons.

Like The Ocean Is Your God-self; It Remains For Ever Undefiled. And Like The Ether It Lifts But The Winged. Even Like The Sun Is Your God-self; It Knows Not The Ways Of The Mole Nor Seeks It The Holes Of The Serpent. But Your God-self Does Not Dwell Alone In Your Being. Much In You Is Still Man, And Much In You Is Not Yet Man, But A Shapeless Pigmy That Walks Asleep In The Mist Searching For Its Own Awakening.

If The Other Person Injures You, You May Forget The Injury; But If You Injure Him You Will Always Remember.

Let Your Bending In The Archer's Hand Be For Gladness, For Even As He Loves The Arrow That Flies, So He Loves Also The Bow That Is Stable.