At cultural opening of thin layers of faith and consciousness,
a new breed of angels was romping on our souls.
I suffered again for tiny spaces between the thoughts.
Death cannot be intrusive.
It waits at the door of light.
The show will start when truth dies.
I go again for the reality of anticlimax,
the anxiety of endless flights into fantasies,
the hallucinations of falling trees.
Give me some space to pedal the silken smoke of dark truths.
There was fire in my heart and eternal burning of a lake.
I cared for tears, the eerie memories.
The age-old pain of seeking the liberation from twisted symbols,
simple measures of finding a passage to unknown.
