Because to trust the love it is easy, difficult is of him to free ourselves

I look at those moments as if they were the last ones, and I hear the soft traveled chords of a piano, as if a very stormy afternoon pursued me. Does it seem that we don't know, or did we fake, what everything the one what in the fence of sadness also fills with joy, that little or does he swim remains already of our feelings? My God! As we are so confined! Because in our youth we waited, and did we trust, whenever anybody frees us and again do enslave us? Because we didn't free ourselves? Because to trust the love it is easy, difficult is of him to free ourselves. 

As it is salutary to hear the murmur of coiling of the water of a creek, sweet, sad, as sliding of the fingers in the keys of a piano of the lost Freedom, spoiled. It is the sonority of the fortress of the Freedom and of the love that they move us for the tenderness of the lost years. As it is difficult and heavy to believe in somebody, because the hypocrisy is the hymn and the flag of so much democratic falsehood. There are human monstrosities that under the champions' of the democracy disguise and of the human rights, they are the denial of the love, and of the human species. 

Everything consumes energy, the Freedom also, it just awaits for our decision, so that it wakes up of the artificial sleep. As if love banks existed, and in them it was allowed to open up a bank account on behalf of the Love.

Image: The beauty of Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan landscape

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