“XXIXTraveler, there is no path.The path is made by walking.Traveller, the path is your tracksAnd nothing more.Traveller, there is no pathThe path is made by walking.By walking you make a pathAnd turning, you look backAt a way you will never tread againTraveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.”

“Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.”

“Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road-- Only wakes upon the sea.Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.”

“Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar.(Walker, there is no road. The road is made as you walk.)”

“I.Don't trace out your profile--forget your side view--all that is outer stuff.II.Look for your other halfwho walks always next to youand tends to be who you aren't.”

“The wind, one brilliant day, calledto my soul with an odor of jasmine."In return for the odor of my jasmine,I'd like all the odor of your roses.""I have no roses; all the flowersin my garden are dead.""Well then, I'll take the withered petalsand the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

“Has my heart gone to sleep?Have the beehives of my dreamsstopped working, the waterwheelof the mind run dry,scoops turning empty,only shadow inside?No, my heart is not asleep.It is awake, wide awake.Not asleep, not dreaming—its eyes are opened widewatching distant signals, listeningon the rim of vast silence”