“...how are you sacred to me? your lines are golden threads - your patter, my patten - I explore the liturgy of your words...”

“...if you don't regard your word as a sacred covenant, then there is nothing in you I can honor ...”

“Goldene Haar!'' he exclaims and takes one of my long braids into his hand. I am not certain I heard right. Did he say ''golden hair'' about my braids?Are you Jewish? The question startles me. ''Yes, I am Jewish.'' How old are you? I am thirteen.'' ''You are tall for your age. Is this your mother?'' He touches Mommy lightly on the shoulder. ''You go with your mother.”

“What can bombs know of the illuminated fields so golden with heaven in your heart’s sacred lands?”

“The words I AM are your sacred identification as God- your highest self. Take care how you use this terms because saying anything after I AM that's incongruent with God is really taking the Lord's name in vain!”

“Your twisting is done--you have the last thread of my heart. I wonder: when the thread grows slack, will you feel it?”