And here we are, on the orbit of our illusions
And here we are, on the orbit of our illusions,
civilized madmen who have lost their compass,
the divine savage in garments of convention,
hiding the mysteries of the true soul,
living in the shadow of dreams, searching for answers,
in the mirror of time that never forgets.
Alive on a cold morning that embraces the city,
I walk the foggy streets, a solitary traveler,
with collar turned up and hat pulled over memories,
growing old, growing old, with my trousers rolled,
caught between the death of old dreams and the birth of hopes,
the lanterns still shine in the silence of dawn.
Friends of the past are now mute shadows,
in my destiny, the spirit sings a melody,
that no ear can catch,
"I am too alone in the world, yet not alone enough,"
listening to the echoes of time, I gaze at the city.
Abandoned buildings and old taverns, strange madness,
emanating from a drunkard in tattered clothes,
and his accursed fate, on a crate,
in front of a forgotten restaurant, under the merciless sky.
Prostitutes with lips like poppies and smudged mascara,
their steps like a dance on dreaming boulevards,
the fruits of their seductive labor tightly hidden,
looking ahead, without stopping, in search of the day.
I look into the weary eyes of faces on the boulevard,
a parade of sadnesses and tired sighs,
the pure pain of being, "endless horror,"
and somehow, I am here too, an accident born from the infinite,
carrying my despair among shards of glass,
and the hands of time, flooding my senses.
An unread poem hanging from a lamppost,
I watch as tattooed lovers stroll,
hand in hand through a graffiti-laden park,
shadowed by the silhouettes of centennial buildings,
an evanescent darkness above,
the scent of progress saturates the air.
The sad sight of an abandoned shopping cart,
in an empty lot, sirens carrying echoes,
of the past night, we are fragile puppets,
at the mercy of a merciless fate, condemned,
to an inevitable defeat from which none,
of us can escape?
If only we could see.
Through the veil of the feigned self, the masks worn,
the beliefs we cling to, the realities,
if only our ears could hear,
the subtle sounds of essence, the sacred melody,
flowing through our blood, the universal river,
flowing into the impalpable sea; if only...
The city stirs with cries of despair,
the sighs of a bankrupt civilization, yet,
it remains holy in impermanence,
sanctified in ephemerality, and I move on,
through the infertile mire, an iridescent specter,
a fleeting spark in the infinite darkness.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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