The city is standing like a passless Wailing Wall, like a bookplate
of faith, like a final stop of the outcome. Everything is ordinary
and vain. Crowds of people are sailing like paper boats along
the thaw holes of shopping lines into the new lines, and so till
the infinity, till the exhaustion of light, thrown into the stone
casement to the patriarchs of luck, for the olds and children,
to the nice drovers of what is happening, to the Bedouins, living
in the desert of dissonance, the colorful world of undying events.
Decoration of nonexistent life mixed with eastern sweets leaves
a bitter taste on the lips, a premonition of tiredness in the maze
of unfulfilled expectations. You’re trying to find a foothold,
correct a mistake of sensations, remove the clock to the direction
of eternity, go out to the open spaces of the spiritual freedom
and answer the question to yourself, why you are here.
of faith, like a final stop of the outcome. Everything is ordinary
and vain. Crowds of people are sailing like paper boats along
the thaw holes of shopping lines into the new lines, and so till
the infinity, till the exhaustion of light, thrown into the stone
casement to the patriarchs of luck, for the olds and children,
to the nice drovers of what is happening, to the Bedouins, living
in the desert of dissonance, the colorful world of undying events.
Decoration of nonexistent life mixed with eastern sweets leaves
a bitter taste on the lips, a premonition of tiredness in the maze
of unfulfilled expectations. You’re trying to find a foothold,
correct a mistake of sensations, remove the clock to the direction
of eternity, go out to the open spaces of the spiritual freedom
and answer the question to yourself, why you are here.
Alien city doesn’t warm a soul, but pleases the eye. You are
looking for the Biblical truth in the outline of streets, in the
relief of church services, in the museum air of centuries, in
the confused walking of short-sighted clouds hiding all the
truth about the Babel Tower of the sun, that any moment can
fall down, and languages will be mixed by the wind, and bring
misunderstanding to the people as a punishment for the
disobedient temper, for the alien pride. The temple can’t be
built on the ruins of the wind. And the time, like a naughty
child, it seems, played enough, and hastens home to the lands
of uninvited troubles. It’s high time – a call or a reward of
despair? Attraction has its own unique dream, wandering in
the heart memory, foggy heritage of premonitions and
losses, exactly it invites you to the holy city, and how not to
understand that there is no solution to this mystery, that’s
why it’s a mystery for the whole lifetime.
looking for the Biblical truth in the outline of streets, in the
relief of church services, in the museum air of centuries, in
the confused walking of short-sighted clouds hiding all the
truth about the Babel Tower of the sun, that any moment can
fall down, and languages will be mixed by the wind, and bring
misunderstanding to the people as a punishment for the
disobedient temper, for the alien pride. The temple can’t be
built on the ruins of the wind. And the time, like a naughty
child, it seems, played enough, and hastens home to the lands
of uninvited troubles. It’s high time – a call or a reward of
despair? Attraction has its own unique dream, wandering in
the heart memory, foggy heritage of premonitions and
losses, exactly it invites you to the holy city, and how not to
understand that there is no solution to this mystery, that’s
why it’s a mystery for the whole lifetime.
Prose of life has a long, eaten by a smallpox face of doubts, it
unwillingly turns the pages of shabby eras, biting nailsof history,
not allowing them to stick with their long arms of winds into
black pupils of the present nights. The city is sleeping. I don’t
believe. Neither it nor the citizens have anywhere to go. They
are standing opposite each other, as in the battlefield. Inter-
rupted breath is filling the air with cavalries of expectation. Will
everything really start without Goliath and David? For sure it
will start. Someone shouted from the crowd: “In the desert again
blackthorn is burning and can’t burn down!”, and a man named
Moses suddenly said: “I’ll go to take a look at this miracle.”
unwillingly turns the pages of shabby eras, biting nailsof history,
not allowing them to stick with their long arms of winds into
black pupils of the present nights. The city is sleeping. I don’t
believe. Neither it nor the citizens have anywhere to go. They
are standing opposite each other, as in the battlefield. Inter-
rupted breath is filling the air with cavalries of expectation. Will
everything really start without Goliath and David? For sure it
will start. Someone shouted from the crowd: “In the desert again
blackthorn is burning and can’t burn down!”, and a man named
Moses suddenly said: “I’ll go to take a look at this miracle.”
To set your heart on the quietness, on the dialogue between
the silence and the sky, to forget yourself, by the movement
of unnoticeable lips to weave desires of the soul, connective
threads of words, and to acquire the blessed breath, and on
the invisible height to see the light, until the midday sun
doesn’t uncrown the freshness of morning and the vanity of
needful days under the watchful eye of cares doesn’t take
away in the flow of deals a painful beginning of faith. Behind
the return there is a time, the second half of life minutes, of
indomitable hours, when what has been seen gains a power
and doesn’t give your steps to sleep, and you go along the
ancient streets, as a spy, not looking around, not thinking of
Egypt, in order not to frighten the spirit of Joseph by chance.
the silence and the sky, to forget yourself, by the movement
of unnoticeable lips to weave desires of the soul, connective
threads of words, and to acquire the blessed breath, and on
the invisible height to see the light, until the midday sun
doesn’t uncrown the freshness of morning and the vanity of
needful days under the watchful eye of cares doesn’t take
away in the flow of deals a painful beginning of faith. Behind
the return there is a time, the second half of life minutes, of
indomitable hours, when what has been seen gains a power
and doesn’t give your steps to sleep, and you go along the
ancient streets, as a spy, not looking around, not thinking of
Egypt, in order not to frighten the spirit of Joseph by chance.
In fact, it is not so. And there is no trace of what you see in
reality. And do you see what God has sent. Is everything
really a lie, illusion, a forerunner of future events, and a
vigilant screen of the sky for the rest of life? But you can’t
bring an ant into the abyss in such a way, and even if you
bring, it won’t fall down. But who is here an ant? It seems
the soul is. A Ridiculous story. Perhaps, but the truth doesn’t
tolerate equality. He left the concealed one for himself and
gave a little food for the Devoted ones. So where are they,
seers, saints, sages, prophets, finally? Among us, in the crowd,
invisible and with growth slightly above the angels. Just look
attentively. Where to? Of course, into yourself, because there
is nowhere else to look.
reality. And do you see what God has sent. Is everything
really a lie, illusion, a forerunner of future events, and a
vigilant screen of the sky for the rest of life? But you can’t
bring an ant into the abyss in such a way, and even if you
bring, it won’t fall down. But who is here an ant? It seems
the soul is. A Ridiculous story. Perhaps, but the truth doesn’t
tolerate equality. He left the concealed one for himself and
gave a little food for the Devoted ones. So where are they,
seers, saints, sages, prophets, finally? Among us, in the crowd,
invisible and with growth slightly above the angels. Just look
attentively. Where to? Of course, into yourself, because there
is nowhere else to look.
Half-forgotten, wild life with pomegranate seeds of days and
peels of evenings, illuminated by the tired squares of dawns,
rushing to synagogues and mosques across the different streets
of consciousness along the islands, Forgiven Christian holy places.
Not to notice each other, to live in the world of isolated ideas
and to give them a spiritual strength – not a privilege, but a right,
going by roots beyond the horizon of history, each one with their
own, with only one “but.”
Now you’re here, on the Temple Mountain, you are appended,
your Way is outlined by the freedom of choice, which doesn’t exist
and can’t exist, and thanks God.
peels of evenings, illuminated by the tired squares of dawns,
rushing to synagogues and mosques across the different streets
of consciousness along the islands, Forgiven Christian holy places.
Not to notice each other, to live in the world of isolated ideas
and to give them a spiritual strength – not a privilege, but a right,
going by roots beyond the horizon of history, each one with their
own, with only one “but.”
Now you’re here, on the Temple Mountain, you are appended,
your Way is outlined by the freedom of choice, which doesn’t exist
and can’t exist, and thanks God.
Thoughts like squirrels are cracking nuts of expectation in
anticipation of the event and hit a nape of distance because we
are flying, we are going,we are driving. At the beginning legs
are apart, hurrying, rushing, running in different directions of
the incarnated frustration, of tiredness, joined the monotonous
imitation of curious eyes, of black and gray pigeons living in
the squares of monotonous everyday life under the street
lights of stars. Meeting with a white stone prose, with a free
verse of the suddenly captured breathing, with a city denying
the reality enchained to the time. Who is your master? Why
doesn’t he take you out behind the fence of the available things,
into the heavenly fields where flocks of propheticdreams are
grassing? Temple is like the Messiah, like a stop in the desert of
faith, as the reincarnation of being, is standing behind the scenes
of eternity and waiting for the start of spiritual life revival.
anticipation of the event and hit a nape of distance because we
are flying, we are going,we are driving. At the beginning legs
are apart, hurrying, rushing, running in different directions of
the incarnated frustration, of tiredness, joined the monotonous
imitation of curious eyes, of black and gray pigeons living in
the squares of monotonous everyday life under the street
lights of stars. Meeting with a white stone prose, with a free
verse of the suddenly captured breathing, with a city denying
the reality enchained to the time. Who is your master? Why
doesn’t he take you out behind the fence of the available things,
into the heavenly fields where flocks of propheticdreams are
grassing? Temple is like the Messiah, like a stop in the desert of
faith, as the reincarnation of being, is standing behind the scenes
of eternity and waiting for the start of spiritual life revival.