On the grand stage of the world, under lights of dreams and flickering charm
On the grand stage of the world, under lights of dreams and flickering charm,
We dance our illusions, beneath arcs of sun and mysteries fashioned through dreams vast and warm.
Freedom, a chimera of thoughts and rustling leaves lost in the ether,
Carries us on golden wings, as our souls transform into vapor.
Under life's curtain, lights dance in frenetic arabesques so febrile,
Illusions woven in the distance, with threads of moon and dreams fragile, under subtle lights so real.
But when the price rises like silver spears illuminating the entire earth,
The curtain lifts, and truth becomes hungry, burning like the very word.
Then, under lacy shadows, the decor shatters into waves of broken illusion,
For the magic of profit falters on untamed and warm crystal shores, a mere delusion.
Chairs and tables are ghosts, vanishing in an instant, nebulous illusions falling apart,
And the brick wall gazes at us with a truth unclear, mysterious like shadowy art.
Under the veil of deception, the moon spreads stardust from celestial heights,
Dream puppets wearing heavy, sad masks, hiding their faces beneath silent rites.
But when the spell fades and the light becomes bitter, cold as the lost dream,
Truth grips us like a river rock, silent yet unwavering beneath the mute word's theme.
The curtain rises, and fictional whispers evaporate like clouds of dawn,
Under the sky's cross, illusions die, memories breaking at dawn, fraying in an hour gone.
In the abyss of the stage, the wall watches us with granite eyes in secret shadow,
We, the dreamers, become wanderers through a finite tableau, wax-free, hollow.
The stars ignite for the next act, the moon retreats into its spherical penumbra,
And behind us remains only true wisdom, fleeting eternity, a dying stanza.
Without sets and masks, only a deaf and smooth truth beneath the clear gaze,
Under the fallen veil, we become part of a preached tale, never to be phased.
Thus life carries us, in shows without ends, devoid of ephemeral beauties,
The illusion of freedom, enchanted and lost in foreign ruins, brings breezes.
But the walls speak, in their silent stone's forever changing tug,
And we, wanderers, forever seek the light in the night, like fog-bound ships in silence snug.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
|