From the Void of Unravelings
From the Void of Unravelings
From the void of unravelings, the breath of my path was taken without a whisper,
as though I were unworthy of confession or of even a single drop of grace.
The way an unseen step across dead leaves won't trouble the sleep of the calm earth,
silent, I was left to lose myself in the restless echo of my own footsteps.
A thread of dust across a bridge of memories that melted without notice,
when I gave away my trust of my own free will, already knowing the ash that would follow.
And just as unexpectedly, I was left to drift in a desert without fire.
For now the ash has returned to me, standing guard, and in the brick of memory I no longer burn,
not even a single spark to make me embrace again the flame that rises from the deep.
What a paradox — I feel more anchored in the cold remnant of my own being
than in sweet and deceiving masks,
in the memories that once were my shield and are now a cradle of silence.
Only in the corolla of stars, where time sighs its veiled questions,
where torches of hope, the heart's own justice, drive away the dark deception.
With steps through the ruins of dreaming, I wandered beneath the motionless sky;
the altars that once burned become now altars of nothing, with a soul thirsting and begging for light.
In this crypt of the soul, to sit down is more sacred
than in the ephemeral that once flickered, wondrous and bright, but now false and foreign —
I make my peace with the mute remains, whose every whisper and sigh I know by heart.
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