and he becomes the slave of his slave.
Oratory is the cunning of the tongue over the ear, but eloquence is the joining of the heart with the soul.
He who conceals his intention behind flowery words of praise is like a woman who seeks to hide her ugliness behind cosmetics.
Love like death, changes everything.
The reality of music is in that vibration that remains in the ear after the singer finishes his song and the player no longer plucks the strings.
Believing is one thing, doing is another. Many talk like the sea but their lives are stagnant marshes.
Others raise their heads above the mountain tops, while their souls cling to the dark walls of caves.
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Your Thought and Mine.
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Your thought advocates Judaism, Brahmanism, Buddhism, Christianity and Islam.
In my thought there is only one universal religion whose varied paths are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme Being.
In your thoughts there are the rich, the poor and the beggared.
My thought holds that there are no riches but life; that we are all beggars and no benefactor exists save life herself.
You have your thought and I have mine.
Your thought speaks of the beautiful woman, the ugly, the virtuous, the prostitute, the intelligent and the stupid.
Mine sees in every woman a mother, a sister, or a daughter of every man.
Your thought urges you to marry wealth and notability.
Mine commands self reliance.
Your thought advocates fame and show.
Mine counsels me and implores me to cast aside notoriety and treat it like a grain of sand
cast upon the shore of Eternity.
Your thought sees power in armies, cannons, battleships, submarines, airplanes and poison gas.
But mine asserts that power lies in reason, resolution and truth. No matter how long the tyrant endures, he will be the loser at the end.
Your thought is the thought of gossip and false pleasure.
Mine is the thought of him who is lost in his own country, of the alien in his own nation, of the solitary among his kinfolk and friends.
You have your thought and I have mine
Your thought is a tree rooted deep in the soil of tradition and whose branches grow in the power of continuity.
My thought is a cloud moving in the space. It turns into drops which, as they fall, form a brook that sings it's way into the sea. Then it rises as vapor into the sky.
Your thought is a fortress that neither gale nor the lightning can shake.
My thought is a tender leaf that sways in every direction and finds pleasure in it's swaying.
Your thought is an ancient dogma that cannot change you nor can you change it.
My thought is new, and it tests me and I test it morn and eve.
You have your thought and I have mine.