Among the forests of ideas that get lost in dense fogs
Among the forests of ideas that get lost in dense fogs,
On high cliffs, beliefs carved into the mountain's root,
We stand bound by incantations, by formulas we recite like a litany,
With hearts full of ancient seals, whose deep mysteries are unknown to us.
It is a world of shadows we weave, from the word we speak without thought,
Rituals adorned in silver, with their echo of unanswered questions,
And we hide beneath these masks, the face of which we've forgotten how to read,
A fear of the heights, of the depths, a fervent desire for refuge, for a deceptively cozy nest.
We inscribe on aged parchments beliefs that aren't truly close to us,
Yet we honor them fervently, carry them on our backs like sacred talismans,
Clutching at our chests those formulas, those dogmas we hardly breathe,
In a melancholic ballet with slowed steps, hoping they will save us from drowning.
Ideology – behold! – a wall built not from bricks of clear conviction,
But a tiny labyrinth, made from the unrestrained desire to feel safe,
With every repeated ritual, we stray a bit further from the understanding of the sun,
And we warm ourselves by a flickering flame, of a light we never truly aimed for.
We, on the altar of the unknown, sacrifice meaning for the sake of form,
In a strange ceremony, where words become automatic gestures,
Hiding our fears under the mantle whose embroidery we no longer decipher,
We adhere to a ritualistic walk through which strolls, amnesiac, a poet who has forgotten what it's like to be human.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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