I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
Faith is a question of eyesight; even the blind can see that.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
There can be no forced inspiration.
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