Genius, you are a soul of poetry, a wanderer in the wasteland
Genius, you are a soul of poetry, a wanderer in the wasteland,
And your fate is that of a star, solitary in the azure seas of the sky.
You fly through kaleidoscopes of thought, all fleeting,
Weaving unseen worlds in a secretive bower of the eternal.
Among mortals, you stand as a giant among elves,
On paths of deep knowledge you cast your shadow.
And each step trodden in that unknown essence,
Is a crucified echo that the world, deaf, ignores.
Your flame, a solitary saraband in the cold night,
A remote lighthouse in the uncharted heavens, enclosed within itself.
Each seed of an idea that germinates and grows,
Is an awkward dawn, foreign and misunderstood by confines.
In hostility with insensibility, you wage war, your great scourge,
Facing gigantic waves of disregard, through storms, you march.
And though sometimes feeling vanquished by indifference, demolished and famished,
You breathe, for genius never truly finds its end in a nosedive.
Oh, archetype of the mind, in your sanctuary of dreams, be steadfast!
And if you're caught by your wings in the fog, you are not superfluous.
For even in the most chased days of darkness, more unbelievable,
The conquered light from within you breaks through into a promising dream.
Thus is your dwelling in the world, under seals of fate,
Your heart an eternal hearth of unextinguished dreams and longing.
And even though you may feel like a stranger in the vast world,
Your sacred song of ascension, genius, is vibrato cord.
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