The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue
The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue,
Will always remain in a dead language for degenerate times;
And we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line,
Conjecturing a broader sense than what common use permits
From what our wisdom, valor, and generosity have formed...
In the flow of consciousness, I lose myself in the labyrinth of unspoken thoughts,
Where the echoes of great poets slip through the cracks of time,
Old pages flickering under the starlight,
Every word a hidden secret, a call hard to decipher.
The works of great poets have not yet been read by mankind,
For only great spirits can penetrate their full meaning.
We have read them as we read the stars, at most astrologically,
And not astronomically, understanding only shadows and ephemeral forms.
In the sanctuaries of old paper, I wander among eternal lines,
Each page a portal to the realm of undeciphered ideas,
Meanings hidden in the fabric of words,
Like a stained glass of meanings, colored by the light of divine thoughts.
In this dance of chiaroscuro, I immerse myself in sacred books,
Written in the language of the stars and bygone eras,
Each verse an echo of beginnings,
A golden thread woven through the labyrinth of the heart, in search of untarnished truth.
Something within me vibrates at the touch of these words,
As if my soul recognizes an ancient melody,
Sung by the ancient winds through the foliage of wisdom.
In this ethereal flow of consciousness, I see myself plunging
Into the endless seas of knowledge, where each wave brings with it
A fragment of truths buried in old stones and dying stars.
Each letter becomes a star in a constellation of meanings,
Each sentence a secret path through the thicket of time,
Where only those with open hearts can decipher the hidden messages
On the invisible parchment of eternity.
Only great poets can untie these knots of light,
Spreading the threads of destiny with brushes of dreams,
Drawing galaxies of ideas on the dark canvas of the unknown,
Where the unwritten stories of the universe intertwine.
Looking at the marks of time on the edges of these sacred texts,
I feel how each word becomes a gateway,
An incantation that opens unseen paths to hidden graces,
Wisdom that shines only for those who dare to see
Beyond the apparent beauty of words.
In the flow of consciousness, I find myself embraced by this vibrant mystery,
This inner journey through worlds of words and metaphors,
Like a navigator on stellar oceans, guided by the beacons of the heart,
In search of revelations hidden beneath the serene waves of reason.
The world today, in its hurried beats,
Has forgotten to kneel before the sanctuaries of knowledge,
To be silent and listen to the whispers of ancestral winds,
To decipher the immortal secrets hidden in our deepest desires.
Perhaps our mission, those of us who still seek the light among shadows,
Is to rediscover these spiritual treasures,
To become those cosmic readers tracing the lines of the stars with burning hearts,
To re-enter the sacred dance of words, at the heart of mysteries,
And thus, in the unyielding flow of consciousness,
In this soul journey through the fabric of life,
To capture the echoes of wisdom and bring them to the surface,
To be part of this endless poem written on the edge of eternity,
Where words become light and dreams reality,
In an eternal dance of the divine and the mystery that embraces us,
Carrying us ever deeper into the bosom of immortal truth.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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