The path of divine revelation, often crowned by fall

The path of divine revelation, often crowned by fall, When from the azure angels detach, blinded by a false light, And in their plummet, lose the horizon, lose the sun and the moon, While birds in black garb, tear their leaden cloak and heart. This corner of the world, once a wandering Garden of Eden, Holds in its bosom soulful trunks, with leaves forgotten by the sun, Witches dressed in veils of mourning and silence, In the weeping eye of the verse, hope is but a sliver of mystery. The hourglass of time momentarily pauses its kiss with eternity, Like a painting torn from the dreams of an apocalyptic reality, It traveled through centuries of embers and ice, of devastation and creation, And arrived with an hour missing for eternity, at gates guarded by nothing. The luminaries of the celestial vault, now with eyes sullied by fog, No longer shepherd constellations, no longer drive the chariot of fire, Only the night, a gray cloak covering the unknown, Rocking the ravens in vast swirls, carried by a silent wind. Disciples of the earth, rare shadows, often scared or too taciturn, Heart clad in shells of fear and garments frozen by resignation, Have not discerned that in the echo of silences, only the Unfathomable Voice is the golden thread, The only one that discreetly weaves the path endowed with wings, leading to divine heights.