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Poem

Under the ashen sky of a forgotten era,
Where the pseudo-man hides his dreams beneath the cloak of silence,
We wear paper masks in our puppet dance,
Each movement traced by invisible strings,
Public opinion, a cold wind that lifts and lowers us,
An unseen hand whispering the illusion of choice,
In a theater of shadows where truth loses its light,
And the generations to come, with their glassy eyes,
Will look at our relics with an absent curiosity,
Wondering if we were ever anything more than echoes,
In a world of noise and uncertain steps on the floor of oblivion.
Under stars extinguished by indifference, we built temples,
Made of words that scatter like sand in the wind,
We spoke in whispers that never touched hearts,
And we allowed ourselves to be led by formless shadows,
Searching in the void between us for something we could not name,
Only silence where we had hoped to find the song,
And perhaps, in times not yet born,
A world will emerge where truth is a living flame,
Where words will be embraces and not swords,
But for us, there remains only the melancholy of a lost dream,
An echo of unfulfilled desires, still haunting eternity.

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