In the canvas of infinity, a man's soul wanders seeking endless chains of moments

In the canvas of infinity, a man's soul wanders seeking endless chains of moments, To weave loves and fates beneath a world without hemispheres. The moments under the moon are not enough, the sun sets too quickly, To adorn every desire with petals of stars eternally in bloom. The Ecclesiast may have lost the divine essence in his haze. There's a need to burn with love and to tremble with hate in a single breath, To sculpt laughter and to paint tears with the same brush of light, Hands, the painters of fate, lift stones to throw into turbulent waters, To make passion bloom in desolation, and to plant war in the memory of kisses. And to hate, to soothe, to rewrite memories, and to erase remembrances as on starry screens, To architect chaos and to conduct symphonies, to devour and to metamorphosize, What centuries and millennia Sculpt in ether and sift at the tables of celestial feasts. Man, a traveler in an odyssey without a clock and without an end. When his dreams are lost, he seeks them in labyrinths, when found He turns them into embroideries of silver, when forgotten, his heart blossoms, When he loves, he begins to sculpt them into the altar of oblivion. And his soul is colored with hues of dawn and dusk, his soul Dances to secular rhythms a tango of the dreaming existence. Only his carnal mate remains the eternal lover of the first love, Assuming, losing itself, learning nothing new, Intoxicated in the orgies of sensation And blind in the face of the spears of despair. He will die, as figs do in full voluptuous autumn, Concluded and complete, excessively sweet, With dry leaves sweeping in a waltz on the ground, around silence, With bared branches pointing towards an Eden of pure possibility, The place where each creature is called to taste from the eternal spring of love.