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Poem

In a world of dreams, where hope vanishes into nothingness,
Life is a drunken beggar, holding out its hand towards its own shadow,
phantasms of illusions passing through its troubled mind,
like a sea of shadows crashing over cliffs of old memories,
a grave of unfulfilled desires, crucified on the cross of oblivion.
Sleep is the shadow of death, but not only that, it is a breeze of sweet forgetfulness,
a balm for the soul wounded by existence, a fold of tranquility,
where I will completely lose myself, dissolved into nothingness, healed from the pain of being,
like a leaf carried by the autumn wind, detached from its branch,
falling gently, without noise, into the silence of eternity.
Dreams blend with reality, a labyrinth of thoughts and feelings,
a river of images flowing ceaselessly, washing the shores of the soul,
where the drunken beggar continues to wander, seeking a lost light,
a hope that disintegrates in his trembling palms, like sand in an hourglass,
and the night, with its black mantle, envelops everything in a sweet forgetfulness.
When I depart, completely lost and gone, a faded echo in the vastness of time,
I will melt into the silence of infinity, a point of light in the ocean of darkness,
leaving behind the pain of being, like a shadow disappearing in the morning light,
and life, that drunken beggar, will continue to wander in search of the lost dream,
in a world of phantasms, where hope vanishes into nothingness.

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