Number 1

The destination is far and the thorns have cut our feet. Give the stragglers a little time, leaders of the caravan. Only those left behind know the agony of the desert. What does the one riding in the litter care about thorn wounds? Anyone in this caravan who understands the language of love knows that words lie hidden inside the ringing of the bell. Let the gardener shut the gate of the rose garden in our face; a single glance through a crack in the wall is enough for us. If you pass by the garden with that graceful figure, the cypress will tie on a sash made from the ring-doves' collars. For a lifetime, doctor, I stayed silent and said nothing; now the burning of my heart has melted the seal that closed my lips.