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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.