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