It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
There can be no forced inspiration.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams
