Yaseen

“Love all God’s creation, both the whole and every grain of sand. Love every leaf, every ray of light. Love the animals, love the plants, love each separate thing. If thou love each thing thou wilt perceive the mystery of God in all; and when once thou perceive this, thou wilt thenceforward grow every day to a fuller understanding of it: until thou come at last to love the whole world with a love that will then be all-embracing and universal.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

“ذُنُوْبِي مِثْلُ اَعْدَادِ الرِّمَالِ فَهَبْ لِي تَوْبَةً يَا ذَاالْجَلالِ
وَ عُمْرِي نَاقِصٌ فِي كُلِّ يَوْمٍ وَ ذَنْبِي زَائِدٌ كَيْفَ احْتِمَالِي
اِلهِي عبْدُكَ الْعَاصِي اٰتَاك مُقِرًّا بِالذُّنُوْبِ وَ قَدْ دَ عَاكَ
اِنْ تَغْفِرْ وَ اَنْتَ لِذاكَ اَهْلٌ وَ ِانْ تَتْرُدْ فَمَنْ نَرْجُو سِواكَ”
― أبو نواس, ديوان أبي نواس

“اِلهِي لَسْتُ لِلْفِرْدَوْسِ اَهلاً
وَ لاَ اَقْوَي عَلَي النَّارِ الْجَحِيْمِ
فَهَبْ لِي تَوْبَةً وَ اغْفِرْ ذُنُوْبِي
فَاِنَّكَ غَافِرُ الذَنْبِ الْعَظِيْمِ
وَ عَامِّلْنِي مُعامَلةً الْكَرِيْمِ
وَ ثَبِّتْنِي عَلَي النَّهْج الْقَوِيْمِ”
― أبو نواس, ديوان أبي نواس

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar