LIMITS OF PROPORTIONS

 
With clenched, abscessed, snarling teeth, like a long-suffering one who settled for life and pain forever, searching for the cognizable puzzle, I am chasing and chasing the hidden riddle every day, moving through infinity. And because the honest, glowing weight of passion binds me and keeps me captive in a curious hunger, I search for the secret spiral lines of the knowable proportion.

The proportions: the real, the secret, perhaps even invertible, which trembles at me in the inner wildness of the soul, incessantly visible and legible, and flickers there with its midsummer lights behind the solidified forehead of reason; my brain is still slumbering silently in the tunnels of my brain, - but you can always know your mission things if you have to confess! – The melancholic clash of the invisible depths in the open is stretching the limited, half-finished envelopes of my destiny. My transparent, crystal-clear eyes, who look in without sparing fatigue, can see the veiled one-essence: a familiar, lost, childlike homeland, where you can always be a little yourself!

My heart is intentionally sensitive and yet imperceptible and can hum so quietly that even what can be maintained will go without it, although it is not completely indispensable. The inner secrets of our relationship: whole, unnecessary, wounded doubt. He can't break into pieces any more, because he's still bleeding, like the red twilight flame. Yet millions of tiny tears flash from the pearly lakes of the eyes to the more sympathetic hearts, where the soul also finds harmony and understanding.

It is most difficult to find our exiled ancestral harmony again, if we always have to fight against the impossible rules of the commissioner. - I would look for the ratio, which would not waste away on the barren and lonely shores of dark abysses, but would rock away, like a blessed mother's bosom besmirched her child!