Beneath heavy eyelids woven from the shadows of the night
Beneath heavy eyelids woven from the shadows of the night,
In the gardens of silence, time whispers questions through the ages,
Why, amidst walls frailly built from the silk of longing,
Do I incessantly love the slender thread, hope that sways on the crest of the waves?
Truth and the art of living, a Möbius strip of fine happenings,
Wrap around the heart, in places where fate writes its novel,
Justice, the forgotten phoenix, rising from the ashes of a bewildered world,
Her visage – a mirror in which we behold an eternal reflection of lost freedom.
Emotional imprisonment, a fortress we alone have chosen, unseen builders,
In the camps of our own conscience where all thoughts are damned,
Hope, the alchemist turning the lead of our days into the gold of dreams
Invites us into a dizzying dance, where yesterday is forgotten and tomorrow floats, adrift.
Swiftly, the moments tick and slice fervently through a life that seeks measure,
We hurry to carve ephemeral monuments in the cumbersome – our unwritten burden,
Life is but a moment walking along the weakened rope of 'now', across the abyss,
Simple beings, guitar strings hanging from its chords, we vibrate to the touch of destiny.
Waiting, this lost art, carved in the temples of patience,
Teaches us that each day is a pact with uncertainty,
Through life's labyrinth, we are both Theseus and the Minotaur – our unconfessed duality,
The calendar of the soul full of torn pages, waiting only for that "now" written in the stars.
And comes the long-beloved moment, the promise of the final act in the ancient play of existence,
The breeze that banishes the demons of impotence, feeding the true hunger – that of the spirit, not the Ego,
We run, feeling how our soles burn on the scorching ground of realities that grant no pardon,
In our fervent chase after the justice that has vanished in the shattered pieces of our scattered luck.
The storm of thoughts inundates us, each drop – a life,
And we, modern Don Quixotes, battle the windmills of the moment,
While destiny weaves its webs, we sew patches upon souls,
Life flows, and its end – an unwritten poem, a sweet melancholy, eternally preserved.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
|