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1. The Eternal Gardens



I entered a garden
where the flowers have no names,
but only the idea of their existence.
There, time is not a succession,
but a circle that turns back into itself.
The roots do not ask the sky,
and the sky does not ask for answers.

Everything is simple and vast,
like a truth that has renounced
its own enigma.



2. The Silence Above



Beneath the vast sky,
there are no questions
and no answers.
It is only a silence so profound,
that it becomes the echo of another world.

I look toward it
and wonder if the weight I feel
is real
or just the projection of a soul
that no longer remembers its flight.

Perhaps the sky is a closed eye,
waiting for us to open it.



3. The Water of Forgetfulness



The river flows without song,
like a lost idea
seeking its meaning.
In its transparency,
only absence is reflected,
and the reflections are dreams
that have forgotten their own form.

I lean over and try to touch the truth,
but the water answers me
with the silence of an infinite
that refuses to be explained.



4. The Silent Pages



A book without words
is heavier than one full of them.
I run my fingers over its blank pages
and feel a language
that has not yet been born.

Perhaps truth does not need
letters,
perhaps the deepest stories
can never be written.
We carry them with us,
like shadows that do not ask for light.



5. The Metaphysics of Shadows



The shadows of birds do not fly.
They remain anchored to the earth,
like ideas that refuse to become sky.
I catch my hand in them
and wonder if the earth keeps them
out of fear
or out of love.

But perhaps even shadows have their meaning:
to be the witnesses of a flight
that only silence can understand.



6. The Mineral Prayer



In stones lies a hidden language
that time has not yet deciphered.
Their prayers do not rise,
but descend,
seeking the depths
where silence becomes absolute.

I listen to their patience
and wonder if eternity
is nothing more than
the courage to remain still.



7. The Sunset as a Wound



The dawn never comes without tearing the night.
In the light, every color
bears the burden of a silent struggle,
a scar that never closes.

I wonder if in this conflict
lies all the essence of creation.
Perhaps the day exists only
to give meaning to shadows.
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