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Beneath the everyday attire, the spirit falls ill, dormant,
In the monotony that seems an eternity of silver smoke, contingent.
Boredom weaves its fabric between walls of flesh, walking dead,
Many beings live this pseudo-existence, in slumbering cages.

They slowly make their way to offices, in convoys of rusty machines,
Immersed in the deep sea, where words become unwritten stones.
They eat on blankets under the sun, with the smile of an unpatched screen,
They multiply like birds of the sky, but with hearts caged, forgotten in flight and song, blinded.

And sometimes, when fate seems to pierce through closed rooms,
A spark comes - a person, a book, a song - that caresses them, surprised.
They awaken and see their shackles, then discover a vibrating key,
Deep within, they save something that slowly pulls them out of lethargy.

But there are those who never find the compass of their souls, lost,
Not even an echo of the calling, they remain wanderers in their early darkness, defeated.
Their souls traverse the world like compass-less caravels, without sails,
Losing the most precious treasure - the dream that they can become uplifters of stars.

The mysterious, the silent, spread an invisible but fierce disease,
Enduring a heavy existence in the absence of light, sublime and eternal understanding.
And when dawn presents itself to those who chose to see,
The sacred interpretation of the world unfolds before them, astonishing sarabande.

In this mystical blend, where lives intersect and carve,
Some write their destinies in flesh, raising altars from the dawns and evenings of life.
While others do not open the tome of magical present, the science that could serve them,
They stoically move through pages, never knowing the alphabet that births magic.

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