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Under leaden skies where shadows gather,
We look back at the great tragedy of the ages,
Since the Enlightenment, we admire the shattered dreams,
Where optimists, as architects of false hopes,
Have woven the warp of fear and bitter fury.
The fire of illusion rose like a falling star,
Its light shining over darkened lands,
But the flames of dreams became burning infernos,
Where angel wings and the voices of humanity burned in darkness.
In the ash temples of the troubled past,
The ghosts of the Holocaust and the Gulag whisper,
Great crimes, born of dazzling mirages,
Are painted on the canvas of history, by the hand of unbridled desire.
On the night sky, we weave constellations of despair,
From dead stars and galaxies of remorse,
We are not surprised that illusions have nourished deep wounds,
When those drunk on hopes created ruins of desire.
The palaces of dreams were built on abysses,
In labyrinths of longing and eternal deceptions,
Their towers, constructed from the sands of time,
Collapsed under the desert weight of empty promises.
Fallen angels weep in the recesses of memory,
On wings broken by ideals too high for humanity,
And the souls that believed in earthly edens,
Found only desolate fields, filled with sorrow and silence.
Gazing towards unknown horizons,
In this timeless scene of immortality,
The optimist wanders, an alchemist of his own disaster,
Turning the gold of hope into the lead of eternal regret.
And beyond the mist of time, in complete unknowing,
Only echoes of lost illusions remain,
There, where the curtain is moth-eaten,
We see only masks and spirits that dance in silence.
In the mystic darkness of our existence,
Lies the painful truth of our dreams,
In a cosmic chaos that intertwines hope and ruin,
The optimist and the pessimist, united in the infinite dance of destiny.
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