For whoever is lonely there is a tavern.
The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.
When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.
I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.
Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.
Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.
Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.
Frost and smoke. A white shirt of stars burns your worn-out shoulders, and God's vultures tear at your metallic heart.
Despair, night in the grieving senses.
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