The world is an echoing place. If we throw anger, anger comes back; if we give love, love comes back.

Love shouldn’t be demanding; otherwise it loses wings; it cannot fly. It becomes rooted in the earth becomes very earthly; then it is lust and it brings great misery and great suffering. Love should not be conditional, one should not expect anything out of it. It should be for its own sake —  not for any reward, not for any result. If there is some motive in it, again, your love can’t become the sky. It is confined to the motive; the motive becomes its definition, its boundary. Unmotivated love has no boundary: it is pure elation, exuberance, it is the fragrance of the heart.

And just because there is no desire for any result, it does not mean that results don’t happen; they do, they happen a thousandfold, because whatever we give to the world comes back, it rebounds. The world is an echoing place. If we throw anger, anger comes back; if we give love, love comes back . But that is a natural phenomenon; one need not think about it. One can trust: It happens on its own. This is the law of karma: Whatever you sow, you reap; Whatever you give, you receive. There is no need to think about it, it is automatic. Hate, and you will be hated. Love, and you will be loved.”

Everyday Osho — 365 Daily meditations for the here and now by Osho

Halcyon Days and Oblivion

“As life wanes,” he taught, “and all the turbulent passions calm,
as gorgeous vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,
as softness, fullness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,
as the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs
on the tree, finish’d and indolent-ripe.
Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!
The brooding and blissful halcyon days!”

After the dazzle of day is gone,
only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;
silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.
The soft voluptuous opiate shades,
the sun just gone, the eager light dispell’d —
(I too will soon be gone, dispell’d,)
a haze — nirvana — rest and night — oblivion,
as life wanes, idly drifting down the ebb,
such ripples, half-caught voices, echo from the shore. — Walt Whitman

Echoes — Pink Floyd

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine.

And no-one called us to the land
And no-one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb towards the light

Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can

And no-one calls us to move on
And no-one forces down our eyes
And no-one speaks and no-one tries
And no-one flies around the sun

Cloudless everyday you fall upon my waking eyes
inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning

And no-one sings me lullabies
And no-one makes me close my eyes
And so I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky….

Doobie Brothers Echoes Of Love

I hear your voice everywhere
It’s echoes of love
Making me look back over my shoulder
Echoes of love are started all over
Echoes of love
Keeps on haunting
I’m out of control
Keeps on burning
Echoes of love are out of control
Bringing back love I used to hold….

Love’s End

Though many years have passed since last we met,
Thoughts of thee can make me smile most gladly;
While parting left us echoes of regret,
Golden haze lights love that ended badly.
Time cannot change true feelings of the past,
Nor distance dim the brightest fire’s glow;
Yet love doth change and is not meant to last,
And lovers minds cannot the future know.
There lives a part of me inside of thee,
And part of thee resides within my breast;
The better part of us remains most free,
To love another, better-suited guest.
I would not change what passed between our hearts,
But love is ended when the lover parts.

— Donna Woodka