Whispers. Murmurs. Voices. All chattering
In the dark. Fingers claw at my brain,
But I can't tear them out; no rest tonight.
Even stumbling, tumbling,
Through the midnight nothingness,
There is no peace. No peace to be had.
Hope dissipates into the void of nihility,
Replaced by vague wanderings,
Rambling debates, screaming subjectivity,
Endless thoughts blur, overlapping
And indecipherable. The white noise
Drowns out anything coherent. Echoes.
Senseless echoes. Tides of pessimism,
And the taint of anarchy. The search for
Meaning in a meaningless world.
Foul whispers deny faith. No morality.
How then, could even justice exist,
In such a dream where truth itself is subjective.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
But I can't tear them out There is no peace. No peace vague wanderings, The white noise Echoes. Tides of pessimism, denying faith, whispers, no morals . truth is objective... always. truth is never subjective. existentialism as a philosophy existed once. now it is gone and it should go. whatever takes away from the Truth that is God, it is destined to be doomed. We shall help all those who are in such state of mind to come out of it by giving them love, concern and real faith in God. thank you dear poetes. tony