In the labyrinth of bone-like thoughts, where the echo of pain ricochets madly
In the labyrinth of bone-like thoughts, where the echo of pain ricochets madly,
I desperately seek a prosthesis for my soul, maimed by life and disappointments.
Where is the cosmic workshop that forges spare hearts hidden?
In which distant galaxy are new dreams woven for those with shattered ones?
I wander through the bazaars of existence, among stalls with second-hand smiles and refurbished hopes,
My eyes—two broken mirrors—scanning the horizon for a sign, a promise, a whisper of healing.
But everything is ephemeral, everything melts under my gaze thirsty for eternity,
And I am left with empty hands, clutching only the shadow of what I once was.
O, merciless and tender Universe, in what hidden corner of your infinity
Have you concealed the cure for our souls crippled by their own humanity?
Are we merely failed cosmic experiments, abandoned on a forgotten planet,
Or is there somewhere, beyond the mist of illusion, a divine workshop for soul repairs?
Perhaps the prosthesis I seek so ardently is right here, within me,
Hidden beneath layers of fear and mistrust, under the thick crust of disillusionment.
Maybe healing does not come from without, but from the depths of my shattered being,
A seed of light waiting to sprout in the fertile soil of my own pain.
And if I were to find this miraculous prosthesis, this balm for the soul,
Would I still be myself, or just a pale copy of what I once was?
Are our scars an integral part of us, or merely painful memories to erase?
Is the search for healing a flight from oneself or a return home?
In the deep night of consciousness, where the stars of thoughts flicker faintly,
I slowly and patiently build my own prosthesis for the soul,
From fragments of beautiful memories, from unspoken dreams and reborn hopes,
A unique creation, imperfect and perfect at the same time, just like me.
And perhaps that is the final lesson, the long-awaited revelation:
There is no universal prosthesis for the human soul; each of us
Must create our own remedy, our own path to healing and fulfillment,
In an eternal dance between pain and joy, between loss and rediscovery.
So I will continue to seek, not a prosthesis, but a profound understanding of my own nature,
Accepting that I am both whole and fragmented, perfect and imperfect,
And in this acceptance, in this embrace of the totality of my being,
I will perhaps find true healing, the true prosthesis for my immortal soul.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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