In the deep valleys of the spirit, where dreams boil in the overflowing cup of consciousness
In the deep valleys of the spirit, where dreams boil in the overflowing cup of consciousness,
I wander aimlessly, seeking countless treasures not in gold, but in scattered words.
There is no money in poetry, only echoes of emotions woven through the fine threads of time,
Like an ephemeral butterfly, flying over the green fields of my soul.
Where minds open, we touch each other beyond materiality,
Through long verses and blind gazes, we hold hands in unheard universes.
Poems are blossoming oaks in the arid lands of our mercantilism,
Their roots deeply embedded, drawing from unseen springs of suffering and joy.
No one has ever been able to buy the sensation of the first kiss of dawn's light,
Or the melancholic cooling of dusk when stars weave light into darkness.
Words are the world's tear, priceless, falling on the square cheek of paper,
Poetry is the song of birds echoing from the hidden corners of our hearts.
In the desolation of cities of gold and silver, the sounds of bullion break the silence of hope,
But in the quiet of a dimly lit room, poems throb with un-lived life.
The poet is an alchemist of emotion, turning the lead of reality into the gold of imagination,
Not for gain, but for the liberation of the spirit from the prison of mundane daily life.
The feeling of love, worries lost among the night's shadows, worth more than kings' riches,
Each verse is a whispered talisman, kept in the depths of our silence;
There is no money in poetry, but there are infinite universes,
Where words dance freely, released from the venal prisons of the world.
In the stream of consciousness, I pour my heart into endless pages,
Old experiences and forgotten yearnings flow through my pen into a river of stars,
My poems are relics of a bygone time, yet forever alive,
What perishes, what remains, in the collective memory of the soul.
We do not earn gold from metaphors, nor silver from complex rhymes,
But in the magic of words, we find the true treasure that never fades.
Poetry is an ancient spell, an eternal song that binds us to eternity,
And even if there is no money in poetry, there is the immortality of fully lived meaning.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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