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Under the mystical veil of a moonless night,
I am but a leaf carried by the unseen currents of time,
A feather in the wind, anchored to nothing, bound by no direction.
Each day calls to me with its silent voice,
Each night whispers ancient promises,
And my thoughts flow like an untamed river,
A cascade of dreams, fantasies, and forgotten memories.
I possess no center, only an unquenched desire to explore,
To delve into every crevice, every hidden corner of existence.
I could step through the door this very moment,
Leaving behind all that is known,
For nothing binds me here,
Not even the pulse of my own heart.
In the palm of my hand, the lines of heart and mind intertwine,
A single path, an undetermined destination.
I find solace in the languor of a Sunday afternoon,
Sipping beer, losing myself in reverie,
There is no compulsion to embody maturity,
For all adults merely play their parts,
In an elaborate charade, a delicate farce.
As you feel, so do I,
My thoughts are but the mirror of my emotions,
I see you today, and expect no change tomorrow,
I will not fear your descent into despair,
For I do not see death as an ending,
Merely a passing shadow, a fleeting presence.
Women place themselves at the dawn of stories,
Then spread like whispers through the fabric of the world,
Enigmatic and profound.
"The great cosmetic strangeness of the deeply normal person."
Those were the people, and I, a wanderer without a homeland,
Tethered to nothing but a thin thread,
A segment of life without form or structure.
The photographer, dark-skinned, and I, the writer, pale,
Parted ways at this point,
He shunned the vision, but I sought it,
For it lay before my eyes, undeniable,
And death, neither grand nor trivial,
Just a presence, or an absence, a nuance overlooked.
God, the progenitor of fervent religious impulse,
Poetio, the hunter of bears, not trains,
For the train will crush him beneath its relentless wheels,
And I always believed there was another way,
A necessity to find that elusive path,
And we bear witness to this necessity.
The sole distinction between men and women,
Is a labyrinth of trials and failures,
An eternal dance of existence,
In which we lose and find ourselves,
Under the mystical veil of a moonless night.
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