LIVES SAWED IN HALF

In sawed lives, the Soul merely stutters, vegetates, hibernates - because peace exists only in expandable harmonies at all. And in the space of the murdering horde of men, the unforgettable and eternal lily-mosque of faces bravely, protectively accompanies its victims. The interests are sneaking around, the suhanc-pernahajderes, who think that advancement can be bought at any time, bravely, are making their way up the ladder of careers impossible. In their palm, which always protects and protects us, and always welcomes us like orphans, we could be opened wide as a universal demand for acceptance. 

They herd us into meaningless, exploitable slave overtime - in the throbbing blood-pools of our veins our eternal happiness trembles in deathly confession. From our gaunt, crematorium cheeks, hardened by years through the training camp of dense calvary, banished for ever and ever the blessed smile of salvation! Our balding hairs fall sparsely into our foreheads, like a few withered leaves; we daily cough up our long-suffering fate, choking; for even the great orphaned child, after the death of his parents, is pushed out into the world with a carriage of naked ideas. On his bumpy, much-risked way he is accompanied by scalpel-edges of scathing criticism, and blood-stimulatingly slits his throat at any moment. 

The infinite is still so inaccessible, and against reason so far away, Vendetta impulses have sworn a petty revengeful chase, a hanging crusade - Yet perhaps happiness is here in the palm of our hand, near us, in our smiling eyes with shining shards of stars, and our bustling cells continue to build the biology of our bodies. - Yet only he who dedicates himself to selfless self-sacrifice and looks with sheer sincerity into the world of wasted opportunities can be contentedly happy here!