From the Chest of the World

The voice of silence did not linger long in the cave under the headscarf, nor in the empty stork's nest. He knows that death is not a trade.
It blooms in the immemorial majesty of burning paper and takes the pain out of the chest of the world.
Като любовник на цветове понася изкушението на гения, дневника на лудия и живата галерия на празното си поколение.
But it tactfully affirms that the womb of words is eternal, that the spring sentence as it flies does not syllabify, and the brilliance of an idea is the light writing of conscience.
The voice of silence, suffering sings. He washes away the bloody dramas with a spring soul. Don't scream in God's ear for them to shake hands.
But it blows up the gold mine of silence…
Did the choir of angels sing over the millions of overwhelmed miners?
Or returns the snowflakes to the Lord.