DANCE OF STORMED PETALS

 It is not possible to find enough flower petals in the yew-flowered Existence to bury our worn, weathered face in them, nor could there be enough empathy-tolerance left to reveal what is stuck in the mole-depths of souls, because basalt cliffs will finally collapse, just like the walls of Jericho, if we finally grow old. The wounded heart senses exactly that it cannot become strong, only vulnerable at all ages on the anchor of Death, since passing away - without exception - always performs a dervish dance, the holy grail of eternal mercy does not ring for the simple average, since that would consume heavy money. 

The finger of human laws simultaneously guides those who leave and those who come, with a molehill and a letter of shame, the one whose hole-in-the-soul naively and childishly dreams of vain happy joys bears the forgivable stamp of inner cowardice; it would be good to walk in the labyrinthine corridors of dawning dawns clinging to a guardian angel, so that he does not have to exist only as an invisible One - but as the beginning in fate. 

A mewling, babbling cry buzzes within the son of man, with which - often - he can do nothing, the river of sins soaks the human-skinned Enkidu-hide, the distant distance that has grown into a prison wall, the penitential loneliness of wild deranged people, where does it drive its victims?!

 The soul inside is still withering away, because whirlpools lurk for it, because everyone bears the selfish-stubborn stamp, like an orphan's absence. The sacred intoxication of passings still reverberates suggestively through Being; amidst the shadows of cracks, even the solid concrete foundation sooner or later shakes. It would be better to finally hide on the pinpricks of a trembling subconscious than a curious, hide-and-seek child; to finally find ourselves! Yes! A noble, yet tiring task!