In the silence of a summer night

In the silence of a summer night, when the moon pours its light over the shadows of trees, Clowns, disguised as poets, rise from the depths of dreams, Arrogant bureaucrats, with faces of paper, Pedantic criers, with voices of iron, You, standard-bearers, With faded colors, unraveling in the wind of oblivion. Being a poet isn't a matter of pride, It's just an error of nature, a cosmic accident, A burden to be carried with fear, In a world that doesn't understand your song, In a world that looks at you with eyes of stone, And you, the poet, lost among stars and dreams, Seek solace in vain among words. The stream of thoughts flows ceaselessly, Memories of clay and longings of gold intertwine In a silent dance, a hora of melancholy, Where each verse is a drop of soul, An echo of a world that no longer exists, A mute cry of a lost time. The poet, traveler through the eternal night, Clings to metaphors like anchors, In a sea of silence and darkness, Where only the moon responds, With whispers of silver and lights of dreams, And the clowns laugh, and the bureaucrats frown, But the poet knows that his burden Is heavier than any standard, Deeper than any word. And finally, when dawn bathes its rays In the sleeping lake of morning, The poet retreats into the shadow of silence, With a heavy heart and a soul full of rhymes, And the clowns dance, and the bureaucrats count, But the world doesn't see, Doesn't feel, Doesn't know, That beneath the mask of every poet Hides a universe of melancholy.