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Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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Now that life has slipped away like a dream through the clock of deep silence

Now that life has slipped away like a dream through the clock of deep silence,
I’ve admitted myself into my verses as into a sanctuary of illusions and shadows,
the nurses are night birds that do not see me, they carry me to the bed of mist,
I am split again into father and mother, though within me they are like two rivers united.
I open the window to let the air in, but winter weaves its web of ice,
the blizzard sings a hymn of silence, its chime freezing my dreams,
everything is desolate and all the patients are silent like stone statues under the moon,
why is the scalpel so cold, as if it has never sculpted destinies?
It is hard for me in my poetry, sister, give me water from the deep wells of dreaming,
and for my major ailment, an injection of light to soothe my soul,
no nurse appears, nor are there any doctors here, only the echo of silence,
the hospital seems like an abandoned temple, where prayers become mere whispers.
I would reach out to the walls, to place a verse of longing within them,
but I am trapped between snow and time, and it is unknown how long I must linger,
with a humble face, at the age when shadows return to their realm,
I must have a place in my poetry, exiled from a world that knows no mercy.
I admit myself into my verses, as into a refuge of last calling,
but everything is vapor and dream in the laughter of an indifferent fate,
my forehead has begun to burn, I moan and call for the wise man on duty,
I collapse into chaos and cold, no one moves, no soul breathes.
Spare them, death, are you not weary of so many souls caught in your web,
and when my entire ruin is complete, I feel I have no choice but to evaporate,
on one path mother goes, on another father, I remain without form, without contour,
it is an absurd division in my essence, from two sources I am born anew.
Mother is the genius of lost arts, father is the knight of bygone dreams,
my body aches and becomes ruins, fighting with myself, without aim,
their divorce occurs within me and I question where I truly am,
for their separation is a ritual that disintegrates all I have ever written.
Inner wars wage between the newlyweds, interjections cross into the realm of silence,
there are no nouns left, nor verbs, my hospital becomes a sanctuary,
my poetry boils like a forgotten elixir and I no longer have the strength to marvel,
farewell, mother, farewell, father, you have laid the foundation of my poetry.
I see you leaving in opposite directions, I feel how you divide me without a face,
my being laments and dies, the verse returns to the dust of forgetting,
all the poetry divides into the sounds that compose it like a swan song,
like masters prepared for death, I too give my very best.
I too die within my texts, the flag of mourning rises at the gates of parchment,
ugly is my plight and heavy is my burden, when I find that even the wise are dead,
I admit myself into my poetry like into a temple of lost fortune and well-being,
the building is empty, no one knows anyone, I feel like setting myself on fire.

Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025

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