In the lie of truth lies the truth.
There can be no forced inspiration.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
Faith is a question of eyesight; even the blind can see that.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
