Through the funnel of time, we are hurried like the wind - it doesn't stop to whisper
Through the funnel of time, we are hurried like the wind - it doesn't stop to whisper,
Life, swift and silent, flows in rivers of liquid sand.
With each fleeting moment, the profound avoids us, camouflages itself - it doesn't speak,
And we leave behind a grandeur of untouched depths, an unmovable Atlantis.
We are long shadows in hastened dusks, forgetting to question,
Day by day becomes a sea of banality, foam on forgotten waters.
The sentence of our days seems woven from an incurable haste,
We awake with souls wandering, asking why our life is all shattered?
In the boiling of the clock, conversations burn up, leaving only dim embers,
We look back over the dunes of years, seeking an oasis sprinkled with meaning.
Prisoners in the labyrinth of superficiality, where sonorous echoes we do not find,
The years have left us with the regret that everything is now – a dense equivocation.
Ah, we are phantoms running through the corridors of time - mere pulse and dream,
Without stopping to listen to the silence that speaks with us, that sneaks in.
We wonder melancholically where all the moments we missed have gone, so late,
In the end, we seek the others, only when the present has sunk, and we find that everything was a treasure.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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