Listen to how silence sings in the crypt of the forgotten soul
Listen to how silence sings in the crypt of the forgotten soul,
Each echo, a devotion at the unseen altars of solitude.
We, travelers in an indecipherable odyssey, shadows on the walls of the cavern of oblivion,
Take on masks of smiles and voices, the gala costumes of illusory solidarity.
Society, a pale star in a universe of secrets,
Is the pilgrim that offers us bread and wine, yet leaves our hearts thirsty.
This play of coexistence, a balm peddled by the wandering healer,
Only soothes, does not cure, the drought of communion of each explorer.
In this gallery of spirits, each portrait bears the aura of solitude,
Every canvas, a mysterious zone where colors evaporate into the abyss.
And what separates us is not a wall, but a thin curtain of illusions,
Through which we barely glimpse each other, our silhouettes teasingly caressing through the mist.
Thus, we live, telling stories around a fire that does not blaze with flame,
But with dreams and words that fall barren, like the leaves of an unfinished autumn.
The anesthesia of society, sweet venom that nourishes us daily, keeps us bound,
Not to the people around us, but to the idea that somewhere, sometime, we will find ourselves, completely unexpected.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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