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Poem

In the grey shadow of voiceless days,  
I, a dreamer laborer, a faceless specter,  
Under the silent vault that never opens its eyes,  
I weave my destiny in threads of black linen, hidden in the night.  
With arms that bear the weight of worlds, I build walls,  
I lose myself in labyrinths of silent echoes,  
Stretching the distances between me and the fleeing dream,  
Life, an unwritten poem, always beyond reach.  
I need neither splendor nor shining thrones,  
Only cold shadows accompany me on my journey through stone days,  
Brothered with poverty, loneliness is my sole companion,  
I seek not the sweetness of love, but the cold kiss of poetry.  
What is my life? An enigma where the echo of questions is lost,  
An endless string of days, a thirst unquenched,  
A solitude that crosses aeons, an endless refrain,  
In a world that doesn't even know my name.  
I live like a monk among the pages of the world,  
Writing my expectations in verses that flow  
Like tears on the unjust face of time,  
And my dreams, pale children, are the phantoms of hope.  
My life, an altar where the flame never extinguishes,  
My purpose, a lantern in the never-ending storm,  
An oasis of peace in the tumult of the world, where steps do not echo,  
And maybe, one day, a sign of salvation will appear.  
A mystic order of pure souls,  
That will light up the darkness with their poetry,  
A choir of hearts sustaining the harmony of the cosmos,  
In this stone temple, I live, I work, in silence.  
Thus am I, the ascetic worker in his sanctuary,  
Without glory, without echo, waiting for a day that may never come,  
Yet my heart beats in the rhythm of an unwritten poem,  
And from each beat, poetry is born, echoing in other hearts.

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