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Poem

In the world of long shadows and fragile light,
where every step, every whisper casts reverberations into the abyss,
creators of illusions, weavers of dreams,
lead the masses with their cunning and shining grace.
Philosophers, politicians, artists,
writers of enchanted words, the religious in robes of mystery
joined hands, sharing the invisible strings that pulled the puppets of mud and bones.
Behind the curtain, the truth like a harsh and unshadowed poem,
ignored, sang phantom rhythms.
Who listens today to the rooster's song heralding the dawn,
when we are all intoxicated by the sirens' songs of the night?
The poetic spirit, solitary and exiled,
weeps under the open sky, blue and boundless,
collecting the tears of stars, unheard stories, unfulfilled yearnings.
But our hearts seek solace, not truth,
and have preferred beautiful and pleasant stories
over the stinging truth, spoken only by the few and wise.
Those poets, lost in labyrinths of metaphors and symphonies of thoughts,
open windows to worlds no one wants to see.
But who has the courage to gaze into the darkness,
when the artificial light of illusions creates seductive glows?
A metaphor, a metaphor, a metaphor,
we are all swallowed by metaphors,
and reality waits for us in the heart of the forest,
between lights and shadows, in a slow and eternal dance.
Truth is the universe's unwritten poem,
a song whispered among the falling leaves and the waves of the sea,
and those who have the courage to hear it, to write it, to live it,
will discover the eternal magic, hidden beyond the veils of illusions.

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