WOUNDS IN DEFENSE

It was designed so that we could not see the zealous layer beneath the layers, always only the slag-free, crystal-clear surface. Through the Nirvana desert of time, we carry ourselves like a torturer. burden of hell: the assured forgiveness.

We, too, are constantly changing dynamically, be it propaganda or horde obsessions. Like silent stones on the deepening, drinking bottom of lakes, we rest on the strings of time, until a quick-judging, vengeful end is called.

We could fly through the miserable, once-only length of our years like a slowed-down, grumpy genie - if we were lucky - on the side of Someone. We would speak out, address the handful of people who are constantly worried about us. Not-understood barriers, obstacles, resistance are given instead of mutually beneficial, negotiated compromises.

With the passing away, the syrupy mud stuck on the yellow soil will hug everyone to itself at the same time. Who would have ever dared to see the footprints of their orphaned loves among the fine grains of sand, which could soon be swept away by the sea tide like a fleeting moment of a butterfly?!

It would be necessary to discover the real thing, if it still exists at all, by discovering it among the cage of closed moments and baiting glances. - Edenic voices could not even now respond to the calling words of the unrelenting Universe: Where are you Muse, who, in spite of raging, wild dangers, inject Irish drops of healing into human, wounded hearts?

Do all living people fear my own death?! If we had known that the look of our superstitious eyes could be a new beginning and the arrival, our eternally revolving things could have turned out differently. – We roll our stone pieces like enthusiastic Sisyphus. Our memories are solidified. And panting, our fighting body - although it chases in search of itself, it has found anchorable heart-shores and wouldn't let go!