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In the dead of night, when sleep refuses to come like a gentle cloud over thoughts
In the dead of night, when sleep refuses to come like a gentle cloud over thoughts,
there should be a sanctuary where you can retreat when fatigue becomes a burden,
when drinks no longer quench the thirst for forgetfulness, and grass no longer weaves dreams,
and I don't mean places where the escape is towards stardust scattered in the wind,
but a realm where you can head, beyond the death that silently lurks,
or the love that has withered like a forgotten flower in a corner of the garden.
There should be a refuge when sleep becomes just a distant shadow,
beyond the cold light of the screen or the films that flow like the dreams of others,
beyond newspapers that tell life stories that bear no trace of you,
or novels that weave illusions in a dance of endless letters and pages.
The absence of that place to escape creates ghosts in asylums and deep shadows,
for perhaps what most do when there is no safe haven,
is to head towards a place or thing that barely quenches their thirst for peace,
and this search shapes them like waves sculpting rough rocks,
even without hope, like stone sculptures facing the eternal wind.
The faces you see daily on the streets are not just lightless visages:
be kind to them; like you, they have not found the way to escape the labyrinth of life.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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