SERMONS THAT BEGUN TO RUST

 At milk-can dawns, the robot work starts up, but it does not accelerate. In the silent blind mirrors of houses, the morning still combs its golden honey hair; step by step, it seems as if everything and everyone is moving backwards and not only forwards. Because man has been forced to make deals, in order to finally immerse himself in his own, selfish background; in the maze of numbers and spiral circles, everything seems to seem more and more obvious; the essence must never be said, because then it ceases to be an absolute secret, unemployment also stagnates in a fundamentally work-based arrangement. 

The quiet silence also breaks the calm that signifies security and intimacy, because no one would admit to talking in the solitude of a thumb with objects or things that evoke memories. 

Sodden shoes, starting to get holes, knock on lukewarm, chilled footprints. It would be nice to continue - who knows how? - the imagined harmony that would benefit everyone. They also fueled the deliberate obstacles on the donkey ladders of assertion, so that only the so-called "privileged" people can get into more advantageous career positions, while the majority will have enough for a pittance. 

The small-style preaching of frills seeps through the cheapened calvary of our days. In the shaped keys of established, rusty gates, one cannot find the right keys or solutions, since they are not for everyone. With useless taboo opportunities made into bandages, how could one continue a life that has begun, thought to be meaningful?! 

The alert, with their ears pierced, like alert Kuvasz dogs tied to a chain, keep watch over stormy days and nights in alert readiness; as if we had to hesitantly, blindfolded, peek through limited tourist signs, until someone would find the safe way out for us.