Years,
which never come back. Years, which no one will return to us. Why, how and who would do that? Who could turn back the wheel of time, and what would we find in the empty shell of time? Time has no wheel. History does. It spins, whirls, rattles. We were free and freer. We were confined. And even more confined. We are, like up there. We are, like down there. Years are knocking on our door. Who is knocking? What sort of news are we to receive? Time bends in front of us. Now it happens without us. We want it to be. We give up on it. We take off our clothes, we are nude. Come what may. The years are burning in our eyes. All that once was is in flames. Our history is written in the crimson of our hearts.

balog