We are born into a world of sublimated madness, calculated with the precision of a broken clock
We are born into a world of sublimated madness, calculated with the precision of a broken clock,
amid the shattered stained glass of desolate factories, where the echo of emptiness reverberates,
in taverns where silence bears the weight of invisible lead,
in battles that start with fists and end with echoes of gunshots and fatal stabbings.
We are born in hospitals that seem like temples of suffering, where treatment is an inaccessible luxury,
under lawyers who demand impossible tributes, encouraging guilt as a way out,
in a country where cells are crowded and asylums closed, lost souls without refuge,
in a land where crowds raise madmen onto pedestals of fake gold.
We are progeny of the dawn shadows, destined to bear the imprint of darkness,
where dreams cling like spiderwebs in the corners of a forgotten world,
where every smile is pearled coal in the burned flames of memory,
where silence is an echo of an undeciphered past, sneaking between heartbeats.
We are born into a world unraveling like the fabric of an old tapestry, yet persisting in its illusion,
under skies laced with shooting stars, comets of unfulfilled desires,
among hopes that shatter into shards of light, blooming in dark corners,
under the weight of a crushing truth, breaking the wings of unremembered dreams.
We fade away in a world that dances on the edge of a deep abyss, a waltz of silent despair,
under the moon slipping between clouds of unease, a pale torch in the night,
and we dream, we dream of a day when we will be reborn, like a mystical tree, in the eternal forests of our soul.
And yet, in the shadow of pain, we seek sparks of meaning,
catching ephemeral glints from dust and cosmic silences,
from every sunrise, we recall the fallen leaves of hope,
for we are born and fade,
in a world full of wounds, singing the longing for a hidden world, murmuring unfinished poems.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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