In the land of silvery mists, where dreams touch the ground
In the land of silvery mists, where dreams touch the ground,
A being-abyss struggles, wishing to rise in docile flight and facing a deep fear,
Striving to be a fruitful field, the most fertile version of its essence,
While the shadows of insecurity cast it into the amphitheater of blooming thoughts, to crush it.
As the depths of the ocean carve waves towards unknown shores, so it sweeps the black soil of doubts,
Foreseeing serene sorrows from now on, the swirl that is just beginning its existential course,
Before the step has been set on the ancient path of stars, before the seeds of hope are thrown to the wind.
And every conceived gesture, every uttered word that will gravitate around it,
Will be sewn in a silent dance together with its shadowed face of expectation, imprinted in the essence of the tome of life,
They will intertwine, like threads of gold in the fabric of the night, in odes of the density of dreams,
Sending echoes through the abandoned galaxies of the heart, reflecting in the constellations of distant love.
However, the gaze directed towards the traces of the past heralds unwritten legends,
Whispers of time on its aged skin, spoken in a twilight that only it hears,
Resembling forgotten smiles which rays of dawn resurrect,
In the fields where the cries of the helpless and the shouts of the strong intermingle, a lattice of recovery.
Breaking the walls of the four seasons that confine its soul in a temple of skin is not a journey without fears,
It's an ascension on stairs of comets, a search for oneself through the fog of a universe made up of shades of grey,
But when the constellations dispense their counsel in a symphonic accord,
The revelation of a world between worlds is uncovered, where its destiny is written in the stars.
Receive your promise as a lamb at the bosom of spring, let its sash unfold,
Expand the curtain of hope over the scenes of your days, allow pure magic to flood your mood,
For if you do not catch the sky in flight, if you do not savor from the chalice of chosen moments,
The opportunity to reweave the tapestry of fate will flutter away like a startled bird – the precious sands of time will scatter to remind you of the age of silence.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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