He squeezed himself out there into our maze. The humble, small-style toys of logic believed to be an invincible, even smaller or larger situations, are filled with a filth of the present time, which can no longer be improved. We feel infallible, and we know that we often need to go through the impassable, girbe-gurba roads, even if we can hardly change it.

The silent, accomplice, start -up - can still come in handy. Just the refreshing, refreshing tingling of the found soul harmony, which can only be offered by the Savior Universe -if you like -as a gift. In the russians of the Justitia weighs, we can trust more and more rarely, as well as in our handshake, spicl-like friends.

Halfway between the falls and the falls, we are all walking over a half-or two millimeters of rope dancers in just one or two millimeters; For a long time, the redeeming moments of bean, cherishing caress, ready -to -call consolations seem like an unattainable distance ...

Stigma stamps were now struck on adults on adult, cared, dismantled faces, which still had a curious playfulness of eternal children. Lame anger, disgrace, seems to be more and more fashionable and stays in fashion. - We dip our clown image in the flour powder of the weekdays, but we no longer dare, nor do we want to laugh with ourselves.

Once we will just look back at us mirrors from the bottom of the curve-groteszk, an unknown torso face, and then the judgment of the crowd sakes: how and how we got here?!

It appeared on a cold winter night
Of dreary sides and twisted rights.
An illuminating space or a room it seemed,
But getting inside, the mystery revealed.

Aisles so long of silenced pages,
Each book carries guilts in stages.
I walked towards the extreme right,
Reading the pages in the moonlight.

The first book that caught my eye
Was of a friend's unsaid goodbye.
Maybe they drifted apart, I thought aloud,
Walking ahead, I couldn't help but frown.

In the next book, a mother wrote
Apologies to her son who lived abroad.
I stepped inside a dreamy corner,
Walking slowly, I drifted further

In the forgotten shelves
Where confessions stayed,
I found yet another page
Kissed red with words unsaid.

The familiar verses I once knew—
I closed the book as sadness grew.
I reached the end, the books vanished.
I wonder if I’ll walk once more,
Through silent shelves and whispered lore.

                                               ~Enviara 🤍