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“Poetry is seeing everything when there is only one thing. It is looking at a rose but seeing the stars, moons, seas, and trees. It is a truth beyond logic, an experience beyond thought. Poetry is the Earth pausing on its axis in order to manifest itself as a rose.”

“A poetess is not as selfish as you assume. After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride— and spaces—the groom, she knows that as soon as she has penned the poem, it’s yours to consume. So, without giving it a think, she blows on the ink and the letters fly away like dandelions on a windy day, landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips. But more often than not, you can easily spot them trodden and forgotten, becoming sodden and rotten. Yet, she will continue to make what’s others to take because selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.”

“In The Power of Now, author Eckhart Tolle writes, "As soon as you honour the present moment, all unhappiness and struggle dissolve and life begins to flow with joy and ease. When you act out of the present-moment awareness, whatever you do becomes imbued with a sense of quality, care and love - even the most simple action.”

“Real joy means immediate expansion. If we experience pure joy, immediately our heart expands. We feel that we are flying in the divine freedom-sky. The entire length and breadth of the world becomes an expansion of our consciousness. We become reality and vastness. - Sri Chinmoy, The Wings of Joy: Finding Your Path to Inner Peace”

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it. -Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life.”

“I never felt worthy. I was not. And still, I know that for him, I would have sold every organ of my body on the vilest, filthiest market, for the lowest price imaginable, if only he had asked-if only he had wished it. That is how much I loved him. That is how much I love him still. And I hate him with the fury of a volcano whose wrath petrifies all around it, condemning all it touches to ruin”

“I write our names on the page. What of it, if the paper will be burned? I write our names in the sand. What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves? I write our names on trees that will be cut and benches that will be painted, but what of it? I will keep on writing our names because in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.”