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Poem
In the heart of inner wanderings hides, alas, a tormented soul,
Wilted by anguishes woven at the edge of the mind, where the thread breaks.
In verses, the silhouette of an overwhelming sadness takes shape, a landscape made of lead,
Carrying with it the bitter taste of disappointment, a sheathless sword in the chest of time.
Why do you ask, when the answers are like leaves in the wind,
A dance on an abandoned stage, where the echo of your steps resounds without witnesses?
It's a self-portrait born from the depths, marred through the eyes of another,
Living its marriage with sadness like a slow waltz, in a twilight that senses no dawn.
Admirable, enchanting, marvelous, full of refinement is the soul of the broken,
If it weren’t for the arrow of separation, the cold kiss of pain, the sterility of melancholy.
An artist's soul flying above lower realities, and yet,
Gravitating towards the abyss of a solitary Parnassian - an eternal home of muses and ideals.
Two spheres, of tyrants and dreamers, spin in parallel orbits,
Touching in the grace of a moment, a spark in the cosmic night, just an illusion of embrace.
Magnetism isn't enough, their potential fusion delayed by inertia, and yet,
A hope slipping through the cracks ceases not to breathe, fragile as a shooting star in the night.
That merciless distance, the renunciation of worthy wings, leaves the soul empty,
Starved of complicity, with anxiety as its cloak – a knight of solitude.
Thus, in the ballroom of the equinox, the artist dances alone,
To music born only of the murmur of his own dreams flooding the empty hall.
Could the eternal struggle between ideas and the heavy ankle of reality be the ticket to freedom?
Or just rainwater in the desert, where the artist, a master of solitude, sculpts his phantoms,
Awaiting a world where ships from other spheres sail with fantasy-filled sails,
And where only the poet, emperor over tear and dream, can still raise his crown from the mist.
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