In the penumbra of life, a choir of lost souls dances

In the penumbra of life, a choir of lost souls dances, Their ephemeral steps leave traces on the sands of passing time, Their dreams, like night butterflies, crash into closed windows, While the sea of existence churns under the moon, untouched by thoughts. The scent of regret floats in the air, heavy with unfulfilled promises, Their lives, like plastic flowers, crowded in vases of oblivion, The music of the spheres pours over them, yet their ears are stuffed with cotton, And their minds, labyrinths of banalities, spin in circles, with no escape. The clocks tick-tock ironically, counting the seconds of a dull existence, While they chase after celluloid phantoms and yellowed banknotes, Love, reduced to a mechanical act, loses its magic in routine, And their families become gilded cages for birds that forgot how to fly. Oh, how life slips through their fingers like the fine sands of the desert, While they sleep with open eyes, dreaming of prefabricated happiness, Death comes as a release for those who have not truly lived, For there is nothing left to take from souls emptied of meaning and color. And yet, in this symphony of desolation, a rebellious note resounds, A muted cry of conscience that refuses to fade into the void, For in every moment, life whispers its eternal secret to us: Live, feel, love, create—for only thus can you conquer death.