We are but transient breezes, subtle specters

We are but transient breezes, subtle specters, On this ancient soil, so dense, so tangible, Yet fleeting seagulls of smoke in nature's hands, A curtain's sway when the final act concludes, Departing from mortality's sharp incision, we leave without armors, Simply empty shells, extinguished echoes on the shores of oblivion, Bearing the secretive seal of a destiny towards the void. How much trust we place in the nipple of mother matter, Which, as if bewitched, can stealthily blow into a dance of rage, Subtle or gentle, sweeping in its path without asking, To then rest, as an eternal statue of enchanting rock, Entangled in scents of the past and stardust. Water, anima mundi, takes shapes that conceive our dreams, Of vapors, rivers, and scales, Murmur of steam, song and ice's silence, Its clear transformations mocking the angels of reason, The restlessness of this voracious cosmos, Weaves the unseen dance of passionate atoms, Dropping the illusion of a room where nothing stirs, Though drifting into vast abysses of boundless space. The mysterious elixir weaving its web from occult matter And silhouettes that seem cut from the stillness of eternity, Elude the clumsy decision of the tried consciousness, While seekers of signs drink desperate silences, Visionaries between the heavens, in a carousel of intention, In the eyes of the crowd, a vain and endless quest for meanings and essences. As much as the pantomime of worlds transforms, The same remains the story - a circle that closes.