RECOGNITION TEMPTED

 Crusty, gray, dirty sky patters snow-white cotton balls today; grinding millet threatens immediate hibernation. The frost grunts and bites many times, like a beaten dog, while the wind in Zivago keeps growling. It's as if most literate people have become Eskimos. They know that there is nothing left to protect, or that there is nothing to be preserved, or to leave it to the wretched, unfair posterity from the thoughts they have built up.

If the self-selling Future needs them, five hundred years later, they will be dug up like dinosaur bones. Like the dying, flickering winter sunlight, a few splintered hopes yearning for hope. This is how the eternally creative, creative soul is destroyed, lost - like a comet or a dying orbiting planet on the dark curtain of outer space, which trembles with an ever-smaller, fainter ray even in the in total darkness. Even the truest, most honest words fall to the ground, wither, and fly away from the conscience in a cooled meteor shower. When will the Age, from which it sinned, understand the interrupted, free-thought?!

 - The writer - if he really is - today can't even enter a lawsuit, he can only testify on paper, because everywhere the precious treasure-words that tear up on the island of his tongue are drowned in degrees. Those who have stayed at home for a long time live forever defeated, condemned and shackled as losers. In the fog of faded years, what would be the point of erecting monuments and cathedral-palaces to vile corpses?!

Like a sinking ship, we flounder as long as we can on the stormy, harsh sea called: Europe is a mess! We should never allow ourselves to be immersed without heralds and prophets, even if the bestsellers are more fashionable up there, a giant, a childlike, tame elder of the Himalayas!