America is immune to all appeals, a metal colossus that does not know the echo of the heart
America is immune to all appeals, a metal colossus that does not know the echo of the heart,
A nation ensnared in chains of concrete and glass, above the fields of forgotten dreams,
A cacophony of shadows that cannot decipher the language of the poet, his verses like rain
Falling on dry soil, and their desire not to know suffering – it is a mask
That hides the murmur of pain, a mirror reflecting only surface beauty.
In their fear of violence, they birth even greater violence, a storm
Swirling at their center, an unspeakable, unrevealed hurricane,
Without reverence for form or change, a chaos
That engulfs everything not conforming to their imminent symmetry,
A charade of contorted shadows and mute cries, a carnival
Where beauty is sacrificed and poetry falls silent like a lost echo.
In the depths of their own stream of consciousness, I see landscapes of molten gold and amethyst forests,
Where each verse should grow, each word a stellar flower,
But their roots are torn and cast into the cold winds of oblivion,
A silent weeping from the earth that finds no solace,
Torn between the desire to manifest and the fear of imposed amorphism.
They are like blind sculptors striking at wings of light,
Hoping to create order, but only stirring chaos,
Unholy Mephistopheles, destroyers of eternal delicacy,
Each step an act of devastation, each touch a fracture in the light of the whole.
America is immune to the appeals of the soul, an iron beast
With a heart full of echoes and hands reaching toward an unknown future,
Believing they can defy nature and spirit through sheer brute force,
Insensitive to the unseen song of the stars and the gentle murmur of secret rivers.
In this space of contrasts and contradictions, the echoes of poetry are
Swallowed by the clamor of consumerism, and dreams become prey
To the unforgiving mechanisms of blind progress,
A train rushing without destination, shattering the path
Through the delicate fragment of humanity and unrevealed sensitivity.
And yet, somewhere in a corner of mystical dreaming,
Where the poet's heart still beats like a silver drum,
A magic spark rises from the ashes of ruined cities,
A delicate thread of light woven in the darkness of despair,
A promise that beauty will never fully die,
That in the depths of chaos, spiritual order finds its eternal place,
And perhaps, somewhere in the realms of forgotten dreams,
Poetry will find its voice again and their souls will once more listen
To the mysterious music of eternity.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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