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In the twilight of my thoughts, where shadows dance like ancient spirits,
I hear the whispers of the Word, a symphony woven by time,
The eternal ecstasy of a silence that flows through the veins of the cosmos,
Each note, a regret that resonates in the cathedrals of my empty heart.
I wander through the corridors of my mind, like a pilgrim in search of truth,
Passing by echoes of voices that do not belong to me, shadows of other lives,
Through the mist of borrowed dreams and desires that dissipate like smoke,
Lost in the labyrinth of a plural self, a chatterbox of the infinite universe.
The politicians, the reformers, apostles of collective deceit,
Their words are masks of smoke, illusions woven from lies,
Impostors in the grand masquerade of existence, where truth is a fleeting shadow,
Ephemeral, like the morning dew on the petals of a forgotten flower.
And yet, in this chaos of voices, there exists a solitary soul,
The artist, a weaver of illusions, but not a consummate liar,
For in his creations, he is reborn, a phoenix from the ashes of intransmissible silence,
An alchemist of words, transforming suffering into eternal beauty.
His lies are the truths of his soul, his deceptions, reflections of his heart,
He does not speak for the multitude, but for the solitary echo that resonates from within,
Crafting words from the marrow of his being, painting visions with his breath,
In the eternal dance of creation and despair, of light and darkness.
And thus, as I float on the river of my consciousness, like a dreamer in search of tranquility,
I listen to the music of my own silence, a symphony of misunderstood longings,
A melody of a forgotten past, a dirge of lost dreams,
In the endless ecstasy of the intransmissible Word, which flows eternally through me.

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