Wooden house

The path of life is ingenuous in its minute-by-minute manifestation, until the minute that completes it and exposes all the sorrow of love. Time accumulates love, transforming the artlessness of the preceding minutes into a revelation of the existence of the human soul, clothed in the cover of flesh and blood, united with the vastness of the earthly limits promised to it, and cultivating this inheritance. How can we not hope for the destiny of human life, each of its minutes, which have become eternal in its inextinguishable images embodied by the light of love? How can we not believe in the light of truth that appears before us in these images?