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has attacked us, has hurt our worship very much; yet aren't those flowers thorns? It appears that somewhere the sand has fallen in the eyes!
These beautiful creepers try to make us fall from our character, from our nature... they coil around us, embrace us freely, yet the glory of the character of we thorns doesn't melt, doesn't shake;
they sprinkle their pollen, their attachment on our pointed faces, still, are unable to make us attached, are unable to put a blot on us.
They send their sweet smell to the un-expecting nose, but, but what? When are they able to awaken any expectation in this nose!
100 :: Silent Soil
