We know so little,
so little, almost nothing
and this is only truth,
when and from where?
from the fissure of infinity
and the unreel of time,
lonely splinters
we wander on dreamy travels,
and the truth a flowing shadow
and it call us,
but the call still is not heard,
nor does the caller reveal his face.
and people voicelessly love and die,
because the truth dosen't speak
but dance in the harmony of unity.