In the city of diffuse lights, the young carry their dreams like transparent cloaks
In the city of diffuse lights, the young carry their dreams like transparent cloaks,
With souls hungry for desires and unfulfilled quests, running through glass labyrinths,
Trying to quench their thirst with offerings of life that sparkle but are hollow to the touch,
Between the shelves of existence, where cheap illusions are wrapped in attractive colors.
They seek nourishment for the soul but find only pale substitutes and cardboard promises,
Between impossible dreams and realities too expensive to be fully lived,
They dress their bodies in garments of appearance and deceitful occasion perfumes,
Molding their fragility into shapes dictated by a society that demands perfection.
Under the blinding lights of clubs, smiles become masks for a modern carnival,
Boys rehearse in the mirror incantations of seduction and gestures of ephemeral heroes,
With watches costing more than their unspoken dreams, displaying illusions of wealth,
And girls, hidden under doll-like makeup and dresses sculpted from the shadows of desire,
Play roles in a theater of promises of love and fulfillment that unravel at dawn.
But behind these scenarios, their souls wither in silence and sadness,
Starved by the standards of a society that dictates their regimen and steals their essence,
Refusing cheap illusions and near-expired happiness promotions,
Dreaming of quality but unable to reach it among the shelves of a cardboard life.
They wait for luck to bring them the desired treasure, a miracle among the shelves,
Hoping to be discovered among the unsuitable products, like in a forgotten fairy tale,
Where fate, like a careless artist, placed them in the showcases of a too-hurried world,
In a society that sells the future on subscription, without guarantees or returns.
But between these illusions and expectations lies the pure and unpolished desire,
To find true nourishment for the soul, beyond masks and appearances,
A place of authenticity and unconditional love that isn't measured in prices,
But in sincere meetings, beyond lights and shadows, where the soul can finally find,
A corner of peace and truth, a refuge far from the noise of the world.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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