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This morning, I packed my soul into a backpack worn by unfulfilled dreams
This morning, I packed my soul into a backpack worn by unfulfilled dreams,
Leaving behind the noise of the city that grinds my existence like a rusty windmill.
I set out on unknown roads, where silence weaves spider webs between reality and dreams,
And my shadow dances alone on the hot asphalt, like a memory from a future that will never come.
In dusty cafes, where time flows more slowly than the bitter coffee in chipped cups,
I photograph my solitude with an old camera that captures more soul than image.
I am a stranger among strangers, a traveler through my own scattered thoughts like autumn leaves,
While the sunrise paints its daily masterpiece on the canvas of the sky, just for me and silence.
I run through forests where the echo of my steps turns into unwritten poetry,
Chasing the mist that whispers stories of all the paths I have yet to take.
From ephemeral flowers, I weave royal crowns that die with the sunset,
While the wind steals strands of my hair and fragments of memories, scattering them into infinity.
I leave small pieces of myself behind in places I will never see again,
Meeting mirror-souls in which I see the reflection of my own loneliness for a fleeting moment.
In the silence of this pilgrimage, I feel time flowing through me like sand through a broken hourglass,
Wondering if these fragments of existence will be enough to warm my eternity.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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