It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
Hope without love is hopeless.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
