It wasn't the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could live with
It wasn't the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could live with,
A canvas woven from moonbeams and delicate shadows on the water's face.
They were seeking a tale in which to slumber, beside a fire that burns without warming,
They, the night's navigators holding the broken compass of dreaming.
They had clasped in their palms sand crystals - hourglasses for time that does not pass,
Their hourglass was filled with moments smelling of eternal postponement.
Under the guidance of a star that does not shine, yet carries them through the darkness,
They dreamed of horizons without land, of casting anchor in a harbor that awaits not.
In worlds composed only of echoes of fulfillment, they carved their path among promises,
Chasing a marvel that embraces the spirit but does not encompass it.
It was a languid dreaming, a spell poured into the cup of unspoken longing,
A sweet melancholy, like dark honey, that kept them afloat on the tide of life.
Thus rose smoke castles, on summer evenings too lengthy,
When the sky seems to speak in the forgotten language of eternity.
And so they passed, shooting stars through their own unseen galaxies,
Voyagers on a paper ship, embracing a dream, an illusion they could live with.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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