I called you in the morning, life, for a bitter tea

I called you in the morning, life, for a bitter tea, With that taste of fate and darkened clouds, You, the eternal dancer on the edge of wavering hope, You gaze into the distance, with the cold eyes of the dreams you stole from me. In your palm, wrinkles of time are carved, The tear runs timidly, but you know its path, You sighed heavily, weighed by the matches you've scored, You have patience with me, when I wear my coat of mistakes. You keep in balance, seconds sweet or salted with neurosis, On the rope swinging between agony and ecstasy, I ask you in passion, life floating in strange hypnotism, Do you prefer the sweet tea or the bitter poured into a silver cup? I watch as my questions silently melt away, You gave me wings, to fall even deeper, Today at dawn, tell me, without delay, without prelude, How do you mix your tea, life, with honey or with gall? In my late confession, I ask the shadow that accompanies me, What will remain when the epitaph of time will be given to oblivion, What will rise from the parched earth and unveiled dreams, From the flame of love that weeps in the abyss of reliving. What will survive, when I will only be an echo in the wasteland, A memory effigy, without tears, without applause, Life, have mercy today, in the years that slowly fade away, Wipe time off your heavy face and tell me the stark truth. As I slide toward the end in the wave of your forgetfulness, I will be just a speck of dust in the cosmic noon, Stay with me a little longer, to whisper the verdict, Lest I forget how to be, before I am consumed by indifference.