God is a cloud from which rain fell.
Faith is a question of eyesight; even the blind can see that.
There can be no forced inspiration.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.