In the lie of truth lies the truth.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
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.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
There can be no forced inspiration.
Hope without love is hopeless.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.