Incomplete Existence
Incomplete Existence
Windows are crystal gates open toward nowhere and void,
but the winds have forgotten the path to my heart of petrified stone,
in the psychedelic carnival of the world I am a shadow without reflection,
with coins of rented breaths what can I buy except ephemeral illusions?
We are nomads with souls of smoke drifting through galaxies of solitude,
I've seen constellations of blinding lights but fireflies slipped through my fingers,
in the ocean of faces flowing like a river of multicolored liquid wax,
I stand on the shore of oblivion watching waves of faces bypass me.
What strange liturgy of this world—each soul is an abandoned island,
what I believed was the shore of salvation is just a boat without oars,
in the labyrinth of seeking existence we dissolved like smoke into fog,
we were navigators of the infinite but now we're prisoners of the horizon.
In the invisible maps of my palms no prophecy is written anymore,
that hope which burned like a green flame extinguished in time's catacombs,
someone whispered that from four days of lunar light you cannot weave eternity,
the sky remains an inverted ocean in which you'll never swim freely.
The story of this existence shattered like a mirror into a thousand shards is simple:
we left to build cathedrals but became ourselves pathways of sand,
when the destination melted like wax we understood we're better off as falling stars,
so happily we lost ourselves in the constellations of roads leading nowhere.
With rented breaths like rusted coins what can I purchase in the cosmic bazaar?
joys are borrowed phantoms and pain is a shadow that no longer tattoos,
we are vagabonds of the universe without coordinates on existence's maps,
in the tsunami of the crowd I am a solitary drop that doesn't merge.
Strange alchemy of the world where each heart beats in misunderstood rhythms,
what we believed was the final sanctuary is just an abandoned station on a deserted platform,
seeking essence we evaporated into the thin air of lost meanings,
we were pilgrims of the abyss but now we're hermits on the shore of disillusion.
In the hieroglyphs of my palms no engraved destiny can be read anymore,
hope no longer dances in the magic circles of spirit gatherings,
the truth is that four nights of lunar light don't transform the sky into home,
our story is that we left to build temples but became traveling echoes.
When the sanctuary proved to be mirage we accepted we're better off as comets,
so ecstatically we transformed into children of roads that lose themselves in fog,
windows open toward unknown dimensions but without currents of life,
existence like an incomplete painting, we are spectators at our own exile.
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