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Poem
In the secret night, where silence is surrounded by unknown eternities,
Under star-studded celestial vaults and dreams chained by the moon’s silver,
Through the poet's words, bounded mortals gain divine senses,
In an ancestral ritual, the mystery of the chalice and the boundless host.
Can you not feel the weight of eternity, poured through his words,
Like a drop of the blood of infinity, flowing into the ephemeral heart?
Can you not see the immortal sculpture, as life passes by,
Bearing smiles and tears, like a cluster of ephemeral stars?
The poet, the messenger of silent gods, brings their whispers among us,
With each verse smoothing the paths to the unknown,
Making immortality tangible, his words the cornerstone,
In a world where everything is fleeting, a dusk spectacle.
The master of shadows and hidden lights, in his heart lies eternity,
For the gods have fallen silent, and he speaks in their name and spirit,
Molding unexpressed thoughts into clear images and endless sculptures,
So that we, blind mortals, can feel the glory of divinity.
Through him, the blood of infinity pours into words, the divine body takes form,
Each syllable painting infinity on the mortal canvas,
A mirror of dreams, where we can see the faces of the silent gods,
And feel the heaviness of their desire, in sunrises and sunsets.
In the flow of his consciousness, moving like an uninterrupted river of thoughts,
Lazy mortals find symbolic experiences of the divine,
In the mystery of the sacred and the profane, through his words, eternity flows,
In a dance of life, where each word is a step towards infinity.
When everything withers and sets, poetry remains,
A guide to the essence of the eternal, a sculpture of the imperishable,
In a life where everything seems to be but a fleeting gust,
In the face of time’s mercilessness, the poet’s word triumphs, eternal.
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