What we call life is only talk of nature.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
Hope without love is hopeless.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.