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Poem

Art is an incantation for souls broken in life's storms,
A gateway to realms bathed in the aurora of dreams,
Where deep wounds turn into butterflies of light,
And pains slowly dissolve into a sea of eternal colors and sounds.
In the hands of the artist, the clay of suffering becomes sacred amber,
Each strike of the hammer on the anvil creates harmonies from inner tumult.
Every verse etched with tears, every note ascending to celestial spheres,
Is a whisper of hope, an ancient call that heals new hearts.
Under brushes of magic, scars become dreamlike landscapes,
Eyes drowned in sorrow rise in adoration of the mysterious image.
In the trembling of universes created by the soul's alchemists,
Find solace those lost lives yearning for peace.
Art, poetry sculpted from the cry of pain and the echoes of hope,
Rises from the ruins of gray days, silent and glorious rebirths,
In every frame, in every secret sound,
Invisible temples of comfort take shape.
In the universe of art, those crushed by life don mantles of light,
And in ancestral stories, they become whole again, loving in an ancient magic.
There, in the rhythm of a symphony of healing, they find their souls,
And in the reflections of art, they feel healed by the spell of divine silence.
In the stars of art, life's wounded rise majestically,
Carrying on their wings stories written in heavens of sacred white,
And thus, in their flight towards unknown infinities,
They find solace in the eternity of their mystical art.

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