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Poem
Paradise may be that moment when we turn back to the past,
And discover that its beauty existed despite our presence,
A time when our departure reveals the splendor, hidden beneath the whirls of shadows,
We wandered through the labyrinth of life, and now, a light pierces the clouds of melancholy.
In the alleys of memories, our steps were echoes of nocturnal shadows,
Beauty passed by us, unseen, like a night flower opening in secrecy,
With our eyes closed, we contemplate the past through veils of dreams and the unknown,
We ask ourselves: were those moments truly magical, in their silent brilliance?
Forgetfulness weaves invisible strings, a mute song of dissipated years,
Each memory a note in a symphony of enigmatic destiny,
And now, our absence unlocks the charm hidden in times gone by,
Paradise, a locked painting, becomes beautiful because we are no longer there.
Old clothes kept in dusty chests, impregnated with scents of forgotten times,
Each particle of dust, a fallen star on a sky of prolonged yearnings,
Now we see clearly, in our absence, how all those moments reassemble,
Magical fragments united in a universe of shadows and pale lights.
Through darkened windows, the saving tranquility pours out,
Absent, we watch the past becoming an Edenic garden lost in reverie,
Without us, wounds heal, smiles return, music permeates the silence,
Beauty is found on the forgotten edge, where time flows like a pure crystal river.
Shadows transform into gods, statues come to life, dancing under evanescent rays of light,
Without pretensions, just the mysterious reflection of our absent calm,
In such a perceived past, magic blooms, and we bow astonished,
Paradise, a living diorama, where beauty reborns in our absence.
And I, a wanderer through the seas of the dream, always return,
Among those fragments of memory, in search of a long-lost purpose,
Each fragment is lost in an abyss of rediscovered lyricism,
An eternal game of shadows, woven on the canvas of mystical reality.
In our absence, paradise reassembles,
A landscape of dream and expectation, where time reveals its hidden treasures,
Thus, I return again to the dream of endless quests,
In a world of poetry, where shadows dance under the light of eternal stars.
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