In the heart of the night, next to the unmoved clock
In the heart of the night, next to the unmoved clock,
She lies, with the pillow—a saline lake of pagan scents,
Mourning something that was never spoken.
Prisoner in the castle of shadows, where darkness
Bearer of chaos, stretches its crowns thinking of madness.
In the veil of silence where the world seems suspended,
The echoes of melancholy are woven into an unsaid symphony,
Among the corridors of memory, sharpening words like swords
In a series of mute dialogues that scorch her soul.
She slides to her abyssal piano, unannounced,
In the poetic traverse to the odes of sadness,
Her fingers fade on keys weaving arpeggios of grief,
The notes—bleedings of black and white bees.
An embroidery of renegade tears tears at her celestial knees,
The heart—a piece of amber caught between ribs melts.
Harmonies tie, they dance—a fusion between piano and pulse,
On rhythms measured in a song of sovereign pain,
The remaining songs of a soul stripped of words
Embrace the echo of an aria of endless melancholies.
Body stiffened by shiver, but her mind, captive,
Floats among memories of celestial—traversing eclipses
And twilights, taking on the color of the foretold.
Her soul sings a soliloquy in the pale and cold light of stars,
If you could see the tumult of the soul,
Perhaps you'd give voice to unravel the core of the pain,
What's the use of demolishing the harmony between us when silence becomes pestilence?
It seems you've buried your feeling in a grave of apathy,
How is justice done, I ask, in this waste of love?
Insistently, you rewrite who I am, your whining whistles 'no, not you',
Weary is the gaze that does not want to see,
Only you caress breath in a cage,
Although desperate, you remain silent, not letting the curse break.
It seems you are content with your silent answer,
What's the right law, within the strength of your delusion, tell?
Ah, my love, is this the final curtain?
Your silence that extinguishes the echo in my chest,
In the murk of each sigh I birth,
Will I ever understand the silence of why,
That void that whistles in the starless night,
In which echoes of unspoken words
Cut my breath with their blade of ice?
The desolation left is a theater of mute shadows,
In its mysterious curtain where it plays
The memories that were once song—
Now just puppets in a frozen act.
This silence—a book with indecipherable pages,
Etched with runes, you made it a gift to me,
It's a labyrinth where I wander seeking resonance,
And meaning that only you could whisper.
The answers that slip from my hands, fluid,
Leave me to ask again and again,
In vain, in this ocean of silence—vast and deep,
Will I ever understand the silence of why?
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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