In the cells of silence, where dreams freeze in wax

In the cells of silence, where dreams freeze in wax, Lone women walk with hearts as hard as bitter stone. A flame of pure pride, in their veins runs hot, Thinking of a dreamed prince, whom longing carries in the mind. In their hidden chambers, embroidered with restless longing, Trees of memories grow, that have not borne an answer, Walls of illusions rise, built by the hands of myth, From archaic depths, expectation defies without reprieve. There are crosses in the march of days, ticks of old clocks, And every beat seems like a bell tolling in the altar of cold nights, Where crystalline tears trace their paths on the cheek, The inner seas of yearning seem to suck them in, a burnt impression. They gaze at the moon, the celestial bride, in her gown of pure silk, Wondering, in her radiance, if just a mirror is her fate, If the prince appears in the comet's passing, in the cosmic thread to show, Or if the beaded sky in dreams pretends to be a ladder. Oh, how easily the wind whistles between branches of doubt, When the leaf of waiting falls, like an autumn too soon. Stuck to the star of their path that towards the unknown carries them, Do they, they wonder, deserve to dress their soul in hardship? But magical is the evening veil that heavily descends upon their world, For in its darkness, it carries also the chance of a fortunate eclipse, Which, once illuminated, would reveal the prince is not that one, But a warm breeze, a word, a shadow that appears towards reality. Now, in the altar of dream, the fire of hope burns softly, And thousands of petals of questions scatter their scents into the air. If they were to open the gate, would the prince come any differently, Not on a silver horse, but in the noisy silence of what is enough?