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Poem
I preach to others to write and sing,
to soothe the pain that rises like fog over a mountain,
I lend them my ears,
baptizing my tattered sheet of paper in their crystal tears,
their poetry and music whisper through me like wind through a field of silver wheat,
I am immensely proud of them,
their courage is like a constellation shining in the night of the inner desert.
And I celebrate their openness and the truth radiating from them—
for a few moments, the burden and pain melt away like fog under the morning sun.
But here I am in the shadow of my own advice,
struggling with the impulse to unleash the cry of my soul,
criticizing my art like a sculptor who sees his statue fractured,
smothering my voice like a fire smoldering under an unnaturally silent rain,
finding solace in the madness of silence.
I have sung my forgotten songs to a few people,
but no one has ever heard my perpetual symphony,
for whom should I entrust this enigmatic aria?
To whom should I confess this dark music growing in my chest?
The piano of silence sings within me,
its sad notes rise like ghosts in a cemetery of memories,
each sound dragging me into a forest of shadows and regrets,
like golden threads weaving into the fabric of my nocturne.
They sing their verses like migratory birds,
but I hide my song, shielded by my shadows,
lacking the courage to release this dark symphony of the heart.
I am the prisoner of my own silent castle,
a chrysanthemum blooming under a wild silver sky,
its petals hidden from the daylight,
full of the scintillations of unspoken suffering.
I often preach for others to release their pains,
but my own aria keeps me captive in the cold claw of silence,
feeling the arrows of thoughts traversing like comet tails,
lost in the darkness of a secret universe.
I wonder to whom I could tell my story that deepens
like a solemn bell, reverberating in a dark fog?
The poet within me remains in the womb of silence,
his words frozen, in perpetual hibernation,
listening to the echo of others' songs,
punishing my soul for not resonating as profoundly.
But why should I complain, when I too am part of this endless
silent rebellion of the inner world?
In every metaphor burn unspoken flames,
dispersing into the tumult of the evening,
like a falling star into a bottomless abyss.
Perhaps one day I will have the courage to release my own symphony,
to open the hidden gates of my chest and unleash the hidden dragons,
to dance under the rain of hopes and desires,
with my heart exposed to the light.
Until then, I remain enveloped in silence, listening to myself,
touching the delicate strings of silence and accepting the shadow of my uncreated song
as a part of my soul,
an unwritten poem, an unsung song, a hidden magic.
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