In the backdrop where the sun had regally retreated, like a knight of the dusk
In the backdrop where the sun had regally retreated, like a knight of the dusk,
The pipe of time smokes memories onto the face of the sky, lamenting in a sigh.
The clouds, scholars of the azure, haughty ink on the day's parchments,
Confess to the earth in diurnal patches, the testament of a moment of sorrow.
The wind, the mute conductor of the evening's symphony, revives its orchestration in secretive tones,
Watch how the luminous script fades, screening the tragedy and comedy of an end.
Raindrops, prisoners in crystal castles, contemplate unseen the nocturnal service,
Rocked in the hammock of nonexistence's celebration, in the unfertile secret stables of the heavens.
The dream, a fragile wing in a leaden world, pulls the world behind itself in an astral cavalcade,
My path, the globe of an anchored star, knots with gilded fairy tales beneath vaults of pure kiss.
I open my wings, filigree with peaceful flakes, to tread upon the whispers of the earth that shiver in the spillover of day.
Blossoming pear trees, bohemian demiurges of altitude, plant their magic seed,
In a cosmos where the last wave of life intertwines arms with the infinite, in a final chord of self.
The book of existence, haunted by the alphabet of destiny, woven by signs,
Rises dignified, a fountain of meanings, from which the dazzle of impotence scatters.
The essence of myself calls out, embraces me, and whispers deceptions,
It leads me through life, the obsession of a wanderer chasing a drifting fragment,
Aurora weaves its way through thick infinity, stitched with jewels of murmurs,
In the lost incomprehensibilities, vowels and consonants sketched in the bosom of the dormant odyssey.
From sleep, I emerge, wrapped in the dawn's vestments of a new world,
Charged with the foreboding of mysteries to come, the writhings of a new beginning.
The last drop of light buds on the forehead of the abandoned pages,
And tired light molds in iron the hearts, syllables, and myths that await to be unraveled.
The grass, once dressed in rocks of dew, ceases to breathe its moist fragrance,
The pages of existence intoxicate themselves on threads of dust and silver, in the song of memories bathed in gold.
And madness, a mystic gatekeeper of barren dreams, watches over unseen wonders, lurking in the moment of relinquishment,
Like the world's rain, held back in leaden shackles, waiting to be set aside, to pour forth in the waterfalls of fate.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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