In halls of time threaded upon the spindle of lingering thought
In halls of time threaded upon the spindle of lingering thought,
Youth sheds at dawn like dew entwined on strawberries,
Weaving a veil of dreams and hopes, the storm is but a hushed song,
The greatest gift—a mystery shared on pages of life yet untrodden.
It is the whisper of the wind among ancient walnut trees, racing,
Word before the word, a promise made before being spoken,
A promise of time, preserved in a heavenly amphora,
A priceless present dissolving in hands, a crystal of counted fate.
Youth, a butterfly's flight in its first flutter,
Wings of light borrowed from the kiss of morning sun,
Treads yet shyly on untrodden paths,
With the unknown throbbing within, its sweet facade of the absolute.
A candle between two worlds, dusk and dawn in a single being,
The young heart sails through the veils of reality, a rope of scorching sand,
Life borrowed in rainbow chalices, sipping on the fly,
Each moment a gate to hanging gardens, green and blooming.
In the library of time, it stands proud, a book with pages yet unread,
Hiding in magic words the seeds of future undreamt stars,
The emptiness it brings is full of echoes and of coming shadows,
An orbit's music, an offering of beginning before the altar to be.
The gift of passing it assumes, in its violin song, in the mystery of the tossed night,
A horizon unfolded like a mantle on the shoulders of the spilling time,
Eternity received in installments, farce in the light of mornings barely painted,
Youth, a world-making in each of us, the chant of an existence unembittered.
Time imparts its traveling star aura, a gift from gift,
Each minute woven into the fabric of fate in the rich carpet of its destiny,
That holy fervor, scattering into tales, our ageless beginnings,
An advance from life, in its generous treasury, ever sprinkled with new charm.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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