In the West, stories are heard, shining at the threshold of a new era

In the West, stories are heard, shining at the threshold of a new era, That we can mold again the raw clay of human nature, Reconstructing from the ashes of time, a dream Eden, fresh and new. As if the rivers that traversed the land are mere illusions on an ephemeral map. We imagine ourselves as demigods in the laboratories of hope, Where the formula of happiness is recomposed in a crystal test tube. We forget that we are the tree of ancestors, with roots deeply entrenched in the darkness of ancient tales, And that each branch carries the endless echoes of those who danced at this old ball. We dream of an eternal spring, in lands where winter has never shed its frost, Where we have the chance to rewrite the books, as if the letters were never sifted. Behind this proud curtain, however, lies the weary perspective of so many generations, Tapping us on the shoulder, telling us that each "new beginning" is just an unknown past. Our ancestors are sculptors who made marks in the stone of the time left behind, We try to erase those drawings, to scorch the garment of rested meanings. But how can you soar when futility threads scales on your wings of wax? Towards a day that seems new, but which in the sky of history will only see the old sun speaking once more.