In the search for the meaning of life, we are born in the shadow of conscious death
In the search for the meaning of life, we are born in the shadow of conscious death,
An echo of the spirit, of our introspective and questioning gaze,
Under the weight of the end, we weave religions and philosophies like spider webs,
In which the thread of our life extends, like the light of a falling star.
But the crafted meaning is as fragile as dandelion fluff in a changing wind,
And we live with growing fear, our souls vibrating in dissonance,
The stories we weave become the shackles of our ethereal dreams,
And we spend our days trying to be shadows of a vast imagination.
Our lives become specters dancing on the stage of our minds,
A theater of shadows and lights, dreams and delicate chimeras,
Under the moonlight, in the gardens of time, we seek reflected answers,
In stagnant water mirrors, deepening the mystery of an unattainable truth.
Beyond cosmic silence, our hopes burn like stars on the horizon,
We try to decipher the enigma in an existence laden with shadows and light,
Happiness takes ephemeral forms, like stars reflected in deep waters,
And in this dance of melancholy, our masks fall, leaving our souls bare.
We are born in mystery and slide into the eternal unknown,
In endless quests, we understand only the fragments of a cosmic puzzle,
We cling to fragile tales, building sanctuaries from hollow illusions,
For it is only our soul that dances in the night, seeking extinguished answers.
In the temple of thought, we sculpt meanings that seem infinite and elusive,
We are but ephemeral figures, shadows of wandering lights,
And the forgotten poet of destiny, with his pen of gold,
Opens paths in dreams, always seeking the essence of a truth hidden in the stars.
Thus, we venture into this endless search,
A tribute to self-awareness, a symphony of lost souls,
We lose our identities on the altar of endless desires,
And find only fragments of light in the gaze of the vast blue.
In this way, the search for meaning becomes a journey of dreaming shadows,
A song of pure melancholy, embroidered on the fabric of secretive time,
And in the end, we discover in the deep silence of our hearts,
That only self-crafted meaning gives us wings to fly, in the sky of boundless dreams.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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