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Poem

The only immortal beings are the poets...
in whose heart the hourglass of the cosmos turns,
Their words are the blood coursing through the veins of eternity,
And every verse they whisper is a star born over the edge of time.
They are the architects of smoke dreams in a world burdened with oblivion,
Builders of bridges over the dark waters of deadly silence,
In their bones - melodies of wind eternally kissing the flesh of the earth,
And in their gaze - a greatness that denies the obstinate walls of death.
Through their parks, autumns stroll like ladies robed in gold,
And springs germinated in metaphors give birth to unused colors,
They write silver dragons across the sky of nights and chain seas in words,
Painting the palate of the universe with the bittersweet taste of the infinite.
With pens sharpened in the black galaxies of nothingness
They slice into the flesh of the sky, marking each scar with a hymn;
A hymn that calls the day to run eternally through the corridor of life,
A hymn that tells tales with endings that refuse to be written.
And when fate thickens the shadow of night over their visionary eyes,
Poets do not close the book - they become the book, and the pages fly above us,
Every word a bird's flight traversing eternity,
Every stanza - an unending echo, a lantern in the night of forgetfulness.
Poets, the immortals whose veins flow with silence and symphony,
They know not the final silence, nor the cold kiss of the eternally asleep,
They dance in every gust of wind, in every leaf that falls,
And in every heart that loves, and in every soul that suffers, they sing their immortality.

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