Under the moonlight, the train whistles like a specter of the night
Under the moonlight, the train whistles like a specter of the night,
Through the veil of silence, carrying stories and secrets of old.
A girl with ebony eyes descends, her heart turned to stone,
In the station of death, where shadows whisper buried secrets.
In that suspended moment, time shatters like crystal,
And her life condenses into a cold blade, deeply embedded.
In the heavy silence, an unseen hand brings the final pain,
While stars shed silver tears over the faded blood.
Metaphors are born from her suffering, a poem of parting,
Questions drip onto the cold, mute marble floor.
The girl becomes a myth, a story written in the pages of eternity,
Where magic and melancholy intertwine in the dance of fate.
In the station of death, silence becomes an animal that bites at time,
And the train moves onward, toward unreachable horizons.
Under the starlit sky, the world continues its indifferent journey,
Leaving behind the echo of the girl, a whisper lost in the void.
Only the magic of the night keeps her memory alive and bright,
In a world where no one stopped the train for an embrace.
An endless journey, through shadows and ungrasped lights,
In a universe where destiny and dreams are woven with chosen threads.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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