In the garden of eternity, where the spirit blooms like a vine of mystery
In the garden of eternity, where the spirit blooms like a vine of mystery,
We tread, unknowingly, on steps of time hidden beneath olive branches.
As the lifeblood of our finished thoughts dwindles, our lives, clusters of dream,
Shrivel on forgotten soil, with the sun as a wandering monk through the abyss.
The soul, a translucent vine clinging to walls that breathe things immortal,
Which, detached, withers under the weight of an endlessly flickering silence.
This is more than verse, it's the raw bone of our celestial being,
The unraveled vine, the frozen spring, the magical death – a world that flickers and glimpses.
The life sap, precious blend of sky and earth, no longer flows,
We, the ever-joined branches, now lie apart, powerless in supplication.
A stem, a thread of hope, a tragedy weaved into a grain of sand –
In the embrace of fate, we perish together, lost in our own myth.
And thus, the spasms of the heart reflect like ripples on a lake at night,
Eternity – a specter that whispers in summer through the woods left without ward.
But the silence that settles is not the end; it's just the pause before the song,
It's the moment when the root retracts its essence, preparing a new enchantment.
Torn from the primordial vine, I wander in mystery, searching for signs in heaven and on earth,
A thousand visions mingle in the chalice of the night, a thousand desires burning fiercely.
For in the depth of reality, beyond the veil of doubt, there is an unseen magic,
Where we, branches and vine, find ourselves again in dance, in an endlessly silent symphony.
In our odyssey among the stars, in search of the eternal spring of legends,
The vine of the soul – though torn – dares to reconnect the suspended bonds.
And in this transcendental journey, between the ancient and the anticipated,
We breathe the intangible ether in which, mystically, we are eternally enchanted.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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