In the tremble of the evening and the rustle of the unfinished letter
In the tremble of the evening and the rustle of the unfinished letter,
My aged hand, shrouded in the mist of memories, writes the last farewell,
Under the blue cloak of celestial silence, waiting for the silent echo of your pride,
A proud oblivion that dares not gamble with lost words.
Seasons, stepping over us, corseted us in tombs of leaves and thoughts,
They have coiled in the whispers of our souls together and apart, in snowdrifts of indifference.
I see bleeding sunsets where each day concludes its aria, a somber procession
Beneath my eyes frozen forever gazing towards the sunset, in the waiting of a dawn I have lost.
I, remaining immovable as you knew me, just a little more hunched by words unspoken,
The eternal white blizzard has blossomed in my hair, a winter poet with a heart clad in ice armors.
And here's how shades of gray weave their bed in the canvas of the soul's dusk,
Coloring darkness over the love that bleeds, a flame that extinguishes in the horizon that forsakes me.
The star of my eyes is extinguished, and the sky only illuminates me in hues of longing,
It is a portrait, an old and cracked painting, that even time refuses to touch,
Hidden in the sweet kiss of things no longer, I find my solace in the dust on abandoned furniture,
And feel how without your presence, life slowly melts away, like a candle in the wind.
The snow of indifference has buried our whispers, and blizzards of despair blow us towards separate fates,
We will always remain the same figures, like two timeless clocks, the man of the sunset and the woman of the dawn.
Somewhere, in our story, that unravels and falls, we remain two strangers to the world and to ourselves,
Lost, you in the red light of the evening, me, a residue of a star flickering in a forgotten corner of the sky.
And when these lines will fall away, just as the shadow detaches from the body at dusk,
I will navigate in silence among galaxies, an anonymous cartographer of the way with stars and memories,
A mute bard, stripped of the sale of sentiments, severely ill with the euphoria lying in my chest,
A last page, a last verse, woven from longing, of your odyssey, admirably sad, divinely beautiful.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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