You fall into the heights toward the very bottom,
Where silver peace seals the spheres.
The pupils were swept away by stellar dust –
The barriers broke apart for the gnostic.
The question that sprouted through the mind
Seeks a home in the pure ether.
The Creator is silent. He is the mirror of the soul,
Where one's own reflection destroys all mirages.
Sacred sorrow – to remain face to face,
To stand at last before the countenance of shadow.
Do not raise cathedrals from the rot of centuries,
From the whisper that faded in the cobwebs.
The answer sleeps in the scars of emptiness,
In the salt of words, in icy burning.
God is only a void, sharp and holy –
Your deepest, your own solitude.