There can be no forced inspiration.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
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.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.