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In the garden of dreams, where time stretches like an endless river
In the garden of dreams, where time stretches like an endless river
In the garden of dreams, where time stretches like an endless river,
My soul is neither an anvil nor iron to be shaped by force,
Do not try to forge with your will the pulse of my heart,
Sharp questions will not win silent battles.
When you come to conquer the flesh, to possess sound and silence,
Stay away, for ribs are not maps, and the spine is not a ladder,
Do not bring a shovel or greed, for this ground hides tombstones,
That in your eyes seem crowns and castles of illusion.
My heart is not a museum, not a reliquary of loneliness,
Fossils of melancholy are not displayed on shelves of suffering,
Nor do plaques in the language of wounds tell stories of war,
You cannot put my thoughts in your pocket to satisfy your curiosity.
You cannot crush them in your palm and demand intimacy as tribute,
You cannot leave with crumbs of pain as souvenirs to take home,
Do not come with desire, gripping false convictions between your teeth,
Nor offering light disguised as balm for unhealed wounds.
Instead, bring silence as a gift, a museum of old ghosts,
Bring canvases of unfulfilled dreams, woven in corners of the mind,
But above all, please, come only with yourself,
For only then can we create magic from the shadow of lost time.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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