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Poem

Calligraphy in the Air for a Fleeting Muse
Each morning I try to capture in the net of my metaphors the dance of your steps through the corridors of memory,
But the words melt like ice butterflies in the palm of a child who wanted to keep winter forever,
While you continue to exist beyond the edges of the paper, more alive than any verse could encompass.
Your laughter is a silver seagull playing among my thoughts like among the sea waves at dusk,
And I try to catch it in the web of stanzas, but it always escapes, leaving behind only echoes and shining feathers,
Which turn into stardust when I try to stick them to the page with the tears of my helpless inspiration.
How to describe in measured syllables the way your gaze makes light stop and dance,
As if the universe itself holds its breath when your eyes reflect constellations unknown to astronauts,
And I remain here, with a worn dictionary in hand, searching for words for colors the Romanian language hasn't yet dreamed of.
You are like a living poem writing itself on the sky of my heart with letters of fire and dew,
While I, a mere scribe of the impossible, attempt to translate into black ink
The multicolored symphony of your presence that makes the air vibrate like an Aeolian harp in the hands of the wind.
Every verse I write is just a pale shadow of how you complete
The gaps in all the world's unfinished love songs,
Like a secret musical key transforming the noise of existence into the purest melody.
Perhaps your beauty is not meant to be captured in the cage of my unworthy stanzas,
But to fly free through the memories of those who have met you, like a hummingbird feeding on the wonder in their eyes,
While I remain here, between blank pages, trying to paint infinity with the finite alphabet of mortals.

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