Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
