Bricking in each other,
the stone temples complain about the tranquility inside.

The hung chandelier turns on its lights,
there’s no fog smoking in the looks.

The faces sanctify themselves wet and shiny,
the children’s smiles consenting the wisdom.

There’s no sermon, but one can hear the words building inside.

The points don’t touch the edges between the lines,
the circles are sky meshesin the mirror.

The mirrors get lost one inside the other,
there’s no shade in the glasses of wine.

The thirst clearly starts to snow
and the hunger untimely ends.