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Poem

Under the mantle of night, dark and woven with cryptic gleams,
A dreaming artist finds his calling, a secret and eternal protest,
The words that escape his lips tear through the thick veil of conformity,
Defying all that is official, public, and nationalist,
For every murmur of his is a scandalous cry of pure truth.
In the diaphanous light of the moon, his soul becomes a spectral beacon,
Illuminating the uncharted paths of those who defy common norms,
Each gesture of his, a sacrifice the world deems insane,
For in following his inner light, the artist inevitably chooses... poverty.
He sacrifices all status for a crystalline dream that gleams enigmatically,
Renouncing all worldly comforts to embrace divine truths,
In the depths of his heart, an unseen flame burns, guiding him toward mystery,
Even though his path is paved with renunciations and profound loneliness.
In every canvas and musical note, in every melodic and melancholic verse,
The soul of an artist flows, a living, vibrant protest,
In the silence of the night, his calling becomes a sacred incantation,
A promise to live beyond the limits of materiality, in a world steeped in magic.
And perhaps, one day, he might even renounce his art, for a higher dream,
In the final accords and agonizing colors, he will defy the passage of time itself,
He will embrace nothingness and infinity, for his true calling is to be a beacon,
A guiding light, an invitation towards the hidden sublime of the universe.
Under the scattered brilliance of stars and the pale moon, his soul dances,
In a waltz of renunciations and revelations, a living and mysterious poetry,
For in every sigh, in every murmur of the artist, an eternal epic is written,
A protest against conformity, a call to the pure magic of hidden truth.

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