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Poem
Under the cloak of night,
where the moon weaves delicate incantations from forgotten dreams and silent woes,
I wander the corridors of my own mind,
a flickering flame in a world of spiritual guerrillas,
of gods and madmen.
These young men of talent, I think,
are shattered mirrors reflecting the nightmare of our collective existence,
Caught in the iron jaws of material lust,
the endless craving for gadgets,
the hollow roar of soulless success.
Oh, if I were young today,
thrust into this whirlwind of desires turned into chains,
I would battle the echoes of madness that whisper from every corner,
Whisper about the worshippers of food and drink,
about those who bathe in shallow pools of fleeting fame.
The shadows here are thick and cold,
like the eyes of those spiritual guerrillas,
devoid of the light of the stars.
I am but a solitary traveler through the resonant halls of my own creation,
Each step,
a verse in this endless lament,
each breath,
a sigh against the winds of madness.
Why shouldn’t these young men seem disoriented,
their minds twisted by the gears of modern monstrosity?
In every gadget, in every cunning glance,
in every frantic pursuit of empty triumphs,
I see the darkness growing.
If I,
with my soul worn like an old garment,
had to face this world once more,
I would stare into the void where once shone the dreams of brighter tomorrows,
And find only the cold, unyielding face of our own making,
a monument to our lost wisdom,
our broken hearts.
I walk this path,
and words fall like autumn leaves,
heavy and golden, but fleeting.
The stars above weave their silver incantations,
casting shadows that dance like ghostly memories of forgotten hopes,
I am surrounded by the disturbed symphony of progress,
the cacophony of souls lost in the search for the next fleeting joy,
The spiritual guerrillas roar their hollow triumph,
while the worshippers of food and drink drown in the self-made seas of oblivion.
And so, if I were young today,
breathing in the poisoned air of our creation,
Would I not feel the weight of weariness,
the press of despair,
the madness creeping in like a thief in the night?
For in the heart of this world lies the bitter truth,
an answer shrouded in melancholy,
That we have sacrificed the divine flame for the flicker of artificial lights,
our spirits trapped in the gears of inevitability.
In this endless night,
where tears fall like rain and laughter echoes like cries from a distant past,
I stand,
a solitary sentinel against madness,
my heart a fragile beacon of hope,
Praying for a dawn that may never come,
for a return to the light we once knew,
For in this tapestry of dreams and woes,
I find the essence of our lost humanity,
still flickering,
still waiting to be found.
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