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76. Teach Me to Abhor Flies of Sarcasm, Which Sit On the Wounds of Others

The bee of silence has made its way to the garden of my heart, where murmuring thought- trees hold out in tender branch- hands their fragrant bouquets — lilies of discrimination, butter-cups of recipient prayers, chrysanthemums of soul-rays, and violet-dreams of love’s offerings unto Thee.

There, in my heart’s patch of many flowers, fanned by the sweet odors of my love’s breeze, where the dew of Thy sweetness hides in the core of flowering qualities, my naughty mind-bee hovers, reveling riotously over Thy treasures of honey-sweetness.

O, teach me to abhor the flies of cruel sarcasm, which love to sit on the wounds of others, and thus swell their troubles.

Let me be Thine eager bee, “robbing” only the honeyed qualities from the heart-hives of others.

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77. Demand for Seeing the One Fire Beneath All Soul-Flames