There can be no forced inspiration.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
