Someone throws stones at my roof, then hypocritically hides the quick hands that harmed me...I have no stones, only fragrant fresh roses in my arbour, and yet---idiosyncratically---I also hide my hand after throwing roses.

Sorrow, since you cannot make me
quit God,
where is your power?
"Where is thy sting?"

The hours
fly,
carrying away on each wing
a certain portion of your dark energy.

Sorrow,
you are also a slave
of time;
Your potency
diminishes as the moment wear thin,
while God,
sheltered inside me,
grows larger and larger,
the more I keep
loving Him...
Or?