In the odyssey of days that mercilessly run like grains of sand
In the odyssey of days that mercilessly run like grains of sand,
An unseen battle is foretold that we shall wage in the shadow.
The war within our hearts, a citadel besieged by falling stars,
Where every collapse exacts from the spirit a tribute, a drop of molten gold.
Beneath the vault, the cosmic architect with thoughts of crystal,
Arranges untouched paradises, but our hands prefer to dawdle in the hourglass,
Battling with the hope that deep down longs to burst into hyacinths,
Teach us, O experience, to offer instead of an army, a choir of chosen voice.
The spell of fears is the garment we don, fling it through the wind!
Even titans carved in stone feel the shiver of lurking fears.
Each lemon seed become a tree, the hope that raises its branches to hanging gardens,
Where the seed of goodness rises to the heavens, to bind remnants of fairies in tender whispers.
Refuse yourself, O being, to lay treaties of war upon paper,
When in your palms you might hold the core of reconciliation, the sketch of a beginning.
Behold how illusions take root in your eyes, that gilded in the sun dance vividly,
Horizons drawn in skies, where stretches a greenhouse of blossoming souls, a chord of love.
It's the battlefield and the sacred hearth, a struggle of good against the very self,
Shields of silver carved in seafoam, inlaid with pearls of love.
Pawns of spirit in the cosmic game, where the queen is compassion,
And the king, a generous spirit, takes his throne in the vastness of the universe, bearer of untamed light.
Thus, with each turn of fate, in the weave of time, we embroider new destinies,
Where the spell of fear is undone, and in the chaos of the night grow fields of stars,
Thousands of lanterns, guiding man's steps to the fountains of ageless love.
In this magical tableau, we take the most sacred war, to be human, and melt it under rays of peace in guitar strings' song.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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