God is a cloud from which rain fell.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.