Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that...

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

I dreamt — marvellous error! — that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Like an abandoned dog who cannot finda smell or a track and roamsalong the roads, with no road, likethe child who in a night of the fairgets lost among the crowd,and the air is dusty,...

I.Don’t trace out your profile–forget your side view–all that is outer stuff.II.Look for your other halfwho walks always next to youand tends to be who you aren’t.

While the burning fish is tracing his arcnear the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all,and the blind boy flies away in the white stone,and the ivory poem of the green cicadabeats and reverberates in...

Don’t try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Todo pasa y todo queda, / Pero lo nuestro es pasar, / Pasar haciendo caminos,/ Caminos sobre el mar.

When the I AM THAT I AM made nothingAnd rested, which rest it certainly deserved,Night now accompanied day, and manHad his friend in the absence of the woman.

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.