In the crucible of time, where the iron of human will is melted
In the crucible of time, where the iron of human will is melted,
Lords of armies forge their crowns from flames that build mirages.
They invoke the spirit of the earth, but their thoughts leap over windmills,
In the sorcery of pride, chanting incantations that cast smoke in their eyes.
With siren's tongue, demagogues lull their people into a deceitful slumber,
Leading them to swim toward the maelstrom of war with arms of reliance.
Beneath a mask of patriotism embroidered with false gold, they become masters of illusion,
Building castles upon bones, under which lies only the sand of ephemerality.
They raise their speeches like obelisks toward the sky, but in their shadow lurk abysses,
Weeds of words grow toward the sun, stirring hearts with the wind of change.
They urge an exodus of souls to fields of stelar battle,
But they are shooting stars, covering the earth with craters of silence and oblivion.
They are alchemists seeking to turn the lead of fears into the gold of glory,
But in their flasks boil only delusions and their long, dark shadows.
Black magic they birth, in the name of a false rebirth,
Where white lemons of peace are promised, but autumn reaps only bitter citruses.
Oh, in this web of mirages, where each mirror is more deceiving than the last,
The hero becomes a lost shadow in the grand spectacle of power,
Playing the role assigned in this magical play of destiny,
Where the true enchantment is to see beyond the smoke curtain, to break the spell and be reborn before the end.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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