While reading the dregs of my coquettish subconsciousness that plays in thousands of seconds of my existence, I have become hypnotically aware of a limitless game of words and sorrows. Oh, God, what a harmony!? Yet, all those internal searching becomes an illusion that dawns on me when I want to share it with a fellow human being. It seems sometimes that I have lived for ages in that fruitless communicative game (there only exists God’s foundation and someone like me) where wild rivers have built steep banks, and then only I understood my train of thoughts that have become something concrete, not in its essence or theme, but in its manner. It despairs. Given as a gift to the society that was born and bred to kill and die, to lie and take, that gift becomes useless. My non-resurrected word, my wise getto, is becoming voluntary refuge where deceit is evaporating, where there’s no blood, nor evil eyes or curses, where the streams of life experience run.
I was born to create, but I am dying so that others can live in the seconds of the east and the west, where the warmth of the south is only a desire, because God has shown me my path to the north. I am running away, leaving behind the truth in the silence of oceans that will only surface when my siluette disappears over the horizon. My getto, often misunderstood, is the only flicker of light in a long, dark corridor, and only sometimes I discover my footsteps on hpaths where, I am sure, I have never set my foot. A poem. A letter for both lives. Footsteps for the past and the future. My karma, my wise getto has become the only truth in a chain of my being, in yours and mine existence.
I live. Even in the land of disappearance, words will, like an omen, be visible in the field of despair, in a getto assigned to me, where sometimes I don’t even recognize my poems.