The universe is God’s son.
Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.
Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
But that is impossible;
The world has written its own.
Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.
Life is only a flicker of melted ice.
Stars are only the rain of the Absolute.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
Darkness does not age; nothing is always nothing.
In the essence of truth lies deceit. Deceit dispels the boredom of the Absolute.
Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.
Absolute equals nothingness.
Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.
Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.
Procreation annihilates eternity.
Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.
Unborn eternity does not die; existence is dying and falls asleep in the eternity beyond existence.
Eternity is a glorious word but eternity is ice.
Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.
Our eternity is not real; it resembles us; it is our own invention; its scent is vanity.
When following God, Zero we never find.
Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.
The world is God’s salvation.
Sun is a hearthstone, a merry-go-round of extinguished hearthstones.
Universe is the Sun watching its own self.
The world is a fairy tale; we are its guardians.
Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.
God is busy and has no time for you.
Get close to grass and you’ll see a star.
Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.
The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.
Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.
Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.
How many unuttered words died in the heads of those for whom a word was too expensive.
Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
When the long bygone Lee Po wanted to say something, he could do it with only a few words.
We forget old stories, but those stories remain the same.
How alive is thought, invisible, yet without thought there is no sight.
The deeper thought is, the taller she becomes.
A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.
Truth is hard-hearted and unrelenting, too clear, precise; a lie is much more imaginative.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
Teaching others, he corrected himself.
He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.
After Homer and Dante, is a whole century of creating worth one Shakespeare?
How does one say something new and not retell?
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
He did not profess to anybody how to reach others without professing.
You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.
Do not look too far for you will see nothing.
Either you will be you or you will not be at all.
We need knew knights, but without swords.
Come out from within yourself, speak out.
Say No! Accept the burdens of revenge.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
We built tall buildings, but we have not become any taller.
Whatever others may say, they say it to deceive and comfort themselves, not help you.
His Highness was always confident in his statements, especially about what he viewed for the first time.
Now that we are all so smart, we don’t easily find resolutions.
He thought others were small; that was his greatness.
This dwarf still observes the world from his own self-imposed height.
If you could have walked on the planet before humans lived here, maybe the Ivory Coast would have seemed more beautiful than La Côte d'Azur.
We measure everything by ourselves with almost a necessary conceit.
There are no winners in real games.
The game itself is bigger than the winning.
You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.
Statesmen are grocers, ambitious clowns.
For a game, you don[[#146]]t need a teacher.
Faith is a question of eyesight; even the blind can see that.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
Christ did not ask or want to be what he was not.
Burning the witch Giordano Bruno is one more wound inflicted on Christ[[#146]]s body.
Your head is a lit chamber.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Nothing is inanimate; what is the rest is our interpretation.
We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Disease often comes with a smiling face.
Strangers are endearing because you don[[#146]]t know them yet.
He confided his deepest secret to you; be always wary of his secret.
Don[[#146]]t pay attention to those who offer too much.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
It[[#146]]s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
You don[[#146]]t know anything, but I know even less.
If you are good, they say you are weak.
If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses. They blossomed; they did not talk about blossoming. They grew; they did not talk about growing.
Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.
From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.
For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.
Beyond all vanities, fights, and desires, omnipotent silence lies.
There are many secrets; don’t try to resolve them all.
They are both spectacular, life and death.
In greatness, life and death merge.
Nothing is made, nothing disappears. These are the old truths. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.
He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.
Wherever I go, I run into myself.
One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.
I recreate myself; that is my only power.
I enjoy it when the world smiles; the more smiles, the warmer I am.
And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.
Creating means living.
My mathematics is simple: one plus one = one.
With me: one minus one = one; with you: it’s zero. Here lies the only difference.
I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?
Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.
What you gain here, you lose on the other side.
Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.
Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.
While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.
We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.
Although personal calling I sense—who am I? even if I am, I don't know.
And what does infinity mean to you? Are you not infinity and yourself?
The farther away, the closer the home becomes.
I can see myself before myself—a being through dark scenery.
Into the day as by dream I swim to the music of nourished meaning.
The world contained in a seed is determined by its program.
There is a pledge of the big and of the small in the infinite.
You are not what you are; you are darkness looking for light within.
There are no clear borders, only merging invisible to the sight.
Life into death— life’s other shape, no rupture, only crossing.
You are hurrying to the sweet place, to the nonsense chasing your spirit and in the nonsense you look for answers.
The world is always open, waiting to be discovered.
Will the day tell its secret before it disappears, becomes timeless night.
When the star dies, its eye closes; tired of watching, it flies back to its first bright dream.
In the end, the world returns to a grain.
He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.
He knows he will be born again, and start fresh anew.
When magic through nerves and reason passes, imagination, force, and passion will thunder. The portrait of the world is changed.
To jump over centuries in one step is impossible. Jump too high or far, you’ll be way too late.
A hidden spark of the dream sleeps in the forest and waits in the celestial spheres of the brain.
All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated to go peacefully and enjoy the eternal nap.
To the knights of faith nobody believes.
New Rome will be destroyed by the attacks of new vandals. God always remains silent.
Vandals listen only when others are stronger. If vandals are equal or stronger, their word is the last word.
Deliver thunder, God, if you don’t choose to talk.
Life eats life to live.
Neither alive nor dead; no one lets up, no one wins.
Death swallows death.
A word only writes its night and rides its dream.
To sense the peace of extinguished passion, happiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge.
If emptiness is empty, how can something be borne or awaken from it?
If emptiness is endless, then everything rests in emptiness.
Nothing is part of everything.
Without nothing, everything would be nothing.
From everything, nothing looks to nothing.
From nothing comes everything.
When everything hurries everywhere, nothing goes anywhere.
When he is most powerful, nothing does he become.
To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.
Digressions are part of harmony, deviations too.
Earth is the source of light.
Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.
The world is a navy in an empty ocean.
Devil and God – two sides of the same face.
Good is not always good.
What you spend, you save.
When within yourself you find the road, the right road will open.
In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.
In an endless silence even screams sound silent.
While the world sleeps, darkness and silence are awake.
It is futile to spend time telling stories about the fleetness of each day.
It is vain futility to analyze the algebra of time.
Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.
With your goal you make the one.
Color is the overpowering of black; white – the final victory over black.
From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.
The eyesight for an eagle is what thought is to a man.
The world cannot be translated; it can only be dreamed of and touched.
Forget decorated generals, tell me about Private Ryan.
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
Without space, there is no time.
Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.
Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.
Love is almost never simple.
Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.
To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.
There can be no forced inspiration.
Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.
There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata; there is a thunder note in an angry sky.
Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.
There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.
Art is apotheosis; often, the complaint of beauty.
Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.
If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.
Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.
History will be erased in the universal purgatory.
Dreams are our only geography—our native land.
Even great men bow before the Sun; it melts hubris into humility.
He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.
A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.
Be aware of the high notes, of the blissful faces and their soft messages, and listen for the silent message of a highly decorated gift.
They will smile, as they always do when they plan a major attack late in the night.
He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?
My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world.
There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.
I fly through memory to find a newborn love.
Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.
Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it's a product of an assembly line.
To accomplish the perfect perfection, a little imperfection helps.
Entering a cell, penetrating deep as a flying saucer to find a new galaxy would be an honorable task for a new scientist interested more in the inner state of the soul than in outer space.
Senses empower limitations, senses expand vision within borders, senses promote understanding through pleasure.
Without pleasure there is no sight or measure.
Total knowledge is annihilation of the desire to see, to touch, to feel the world sensed only through senses and immune to the knowledge without feeling.
Great poets are great copy editors.
There is no born lover, there is no born Don Juan, for we are all lovers.
To dream on occasion is not dreaming; to love on occasion is not love.
There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.
Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.
We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Oblivion cures the old wounds.
Fly without wings; dream with open eyes.
In trying to be perfect, he perfected the art of anonymity.
If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago, he would've thought they were birds or angels from another world or messengers from other planets.
When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; when everything is silent and perfect, there is just perfection and nothing to fill the air.
Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.
Possible impossibility emerges from an impossible possibility, or possibly, impossible possibility blooms from the impossibly possible impossibility.
Possible is more a matter of attitude, a matter of decision, to choose among the impossible possibilities, when one sound opportunity becomes a possible solution.
Those who hate rain hate life.
Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.
Pretense cannot sustain blind power.
Courage is more important than to be deceived by shallow victory waiting for a delayed defeat.
Dream by making and make by dreaming.
Busy with the ugliness of the expensive success we forget the easiness of free beauty lying sad right around the corner, only an instant removed, unnoticed and squandered.
Since nothing is absolute, there is no absolute silence, only an appearance of temporary peace.
Since there is no real silence, silence will contain all the sounds, all the words, all the languages, all knowledge, all memory.
Get out, but don't cause unneeded accidents.
If unjustified, ambition kills value, eats its own life, kills someone else's desire to fly, cuts their wings, sucks their air.
There is only as much space, only as much time, only as much desire, only as many words, only as many pages, only as much ink to accept all of us at light-speed hurrying into the Promised Land of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.
The most complicated skill is to be simple.
To say more while saying less is the secret of being simple.
To not say all that can be said is the secret of discipline and economy.
To leave out beautiful sunsets is the secret of good taste.
To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.
To cut and tighten sentences is the secret of mastery.
To keep the air fresh among words is the secret of verbal cleanliness.
To write good poems is the secret of brevity.
To go against the grain is the secret of bravery.
To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.
To go where no one else has ever gone before is the secret of heroism.
To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.
Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.
Every man needs his Siren to check his courage and strength when he hears her song in his travels through the unknown.
We traveled long and forgot why poetry was invented.
I imagined I was God for a millisecond and became speechless for a long time.
A star needs a star.
When I want to be reminded of stupidity, especially my own, I turn on the TV.
I visited many places, some of them quite exotic and far away, but I always returned to myself.
Based on the law of probability, everything is possible because the sheer existence of possibility confirms the existence of impossibility.
To understand possible means to understand impossible.
It is beautiful to talk about beautiful things and even more beautiful to silently gaze at them.
It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.
Beauty is a cheap word, but beauty remains priceless.
I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn[[#146]]t accept?