In these narrow and dark streets, traveling for centuries, a traveler was wandering in search of what kind of state he was interested in.
Places become desolate only when the people living there are so immersed in their individual sorrows that they are not conscious of fulfilling their collective duties.
To hear the voice of silence, it is necessary to descend into oneself.
Deep and profound silence makes the ebb and flow of breaths into a rosary garland and releases it on our being.
How easy is it to wrap up the journey of the past centuries in these streets in these lines?
Just understand that "he" was with me while I was passing through here.
This picture is named after him.
