I have sculpted my father's face in the marble of silent dreams

I have sculpted my father's face in the marble of silent dreams, and all the vehicles of time, each with its own departure, I have kept the dungeons as chronicles of oblivion, and the masks of leaders, shadows of the times, and the teeth of those who tear. I have embroidered quarrels with women like tapestries of embers, but most of all, I have captured this night in the hourglass, as the light drips like old wine on my fingers, drawings of dust on the walls of the soul, shadows that dance behind curtains of fire; I light a rolled dream and laugh like a playful wind, yes, I have caught everything in the net of time. The courage of my memory is a silver bird, flying among the echoes of a lost universe, but living within me, like a river of whispered stories, in the murmur of starry nights, where every detail is a star in the sky of the past, and every memory is a note from a never-ending symphony.