Wings have been lost in the abyss of time, stumps of memories remain suspended on the horizon
Wings have been lost in the abyss of time, stumps of memories remain suspended on the horizon,
shadows dancing before your wandering eyes, you cover them with your palm like a mute spell,
you scream into the boundless silence, praying to an absent god, but the silence remains an echo-less abyss,
no murmur returns and only the void slowly grows, like an ocean of absence,
and it hurts like an open wound deep in the soul, it hurts with the fervor of a falling star,
Mother, it hurts like a dream shattered before dawn, you're an empty vessel, blind in your universe,
and the sky is a sealed lid, far from your touch, the morning—a container of nothingness,
beside you, a pillow—a stone sculpted from frozen tears, and night comes like a balm,
settling like an old friend beside you, caressing you and whispering old stories,
wrapping you in cloaks of fresh mint and sheets soft as an embraced dream,
filling your mouth with the sweetness of the universe to the brim, full of clusters of stars,
and grapes sweet as the nectars of the gods, whispering gently in your ear, like a mother,
hold on, my love, cling to the thread of life, just a little longer, until the break of dawn,
dawn always burns like a living flame when it pours over the world with a sweet fire,
thus, with a sweet pain, they burn in the distance, the frozen sky is a painting of pure crystal,
and dawn blooms like a bird spreading its wings, rising like a rebirth,
and finally, finally—the flight to infinity, a flight of the liberated soul.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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