The words were severed and became oblivion,
Together with them, the lies and the promises.
The good soul sleeps silently, like water under the dew.
They burn like a book, along with the memories.
Evil is forgotten, and so is the good,
Man is like a painting with colors haphazardly.
It pales, reddens, sometimes without color,
The poet reads the soul as in a mirror.
Everything has become oblivion, even love itself,
It is a world of interest where only wonders reign.
Time moves after time and awakens in oblivion,
The poet asks the soul… how can it be sold?!…
Translate by Kujtim Hajdari
