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Dan Enache Poem
Do not get lost in the dream of a poet,
Whose heart is an ocean deep with thoughts and feelings,
He will navigate through each of your moments, without purpose,
Enveloping in verses the color of your eyes, your smile, unknowingly losing you.
In every word of yours, he will seek a universe,
Spending sleepless nights deciphering the hidden messages in your gaze.
He will agonize over a lost kiss, an unknown goodbye,
And create fantastic worlds, filled with doubts and shadows, in his poet's realm.
Do not fall in love with a poet, with his burdened soul,
For he will submerge you in the waters of his ceaseless love,
And you will feel overwhelmed by his ever-present affection.
And when your kiss becomes a mere obligation,
And your touch just a mechanical gesture,
His heart will bleed, and suffer even more.
He will analyze every thought, every moment, in a labyrinth of words,
Wondering if they are all figments of his mind.
And when you choose to drift apart,
He will wake up in the middle of the night, rewinding time,
Searching for mistakes, questioning: "Where did I go wrong? What have I done?"
The truth is, I am a poet, with the soul of a deep dreamer,
So do not fall in love with me,
Unless you're ready to love me in every moment, forever.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2023
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Dan Enache Poem
When you sang, dreams croaked, then you ceased to be a volcano,
It was simpler to become a rock, not letting yourself be unraveled by the waves of myopia.
After seasons died in your arms, resigned to your cold might,
You questioned if perhaps all flowers tear their petals in vain for you.
You were left emptied of greenness, a vast void where echoes can't return,
You've lost the appetite for light and horizons, a crownless tree in the purple twilight.
Oh, how you wished to remain the same old fir, clutching a world of rays to your chest,
But you let the day slip into night, you departed to become the leaf you await to fall.
Nymphs in chorus called you to shout again, for the wind to blow in your blue day,
But you stayed silent, and in your silence the tear of the sea extinguished in a fist of foam,
You feared the equinox that doesn't come, the persistent remembrance of a song once drawn,
And you feigned your existence into a white beginning of hibernation, like a silence before a revelation.
Do you believe that once you bloomed, the storm can't break the branch that holds you?
You stopped being the barbarian that made the echo in the mountain laugh at itself,
And in exchange for smiles, a sad pass settled on your face, casting long shadows,
An unanswered question that floats above you, a flight that no longer knows how to reach its destination.
Ah, you’ve lost her, that fearless bird that used to scent the filters of your soul!
You've ceased your word, halted the depth from caressing the root of the sky.
You've forgotten the whirlwind that lifted you above the world, and now you search for meaning,
You are a snail without a shell, feather without flight, a ripple without an ocean, a sky without a constellation.
Is waking harder? Is oblivion gentler than the sweet pretext of remembrance?
You wonder why the stars do not answer your indescribably late call,
The road back seems too long now, legends speak of new beginnings, barren horizons.
Slowly but surely, you lost it... in a pass of slippery fog over your world,
Now you are the slave to your own echoes, seeking a mirror in me so you can breathe once more.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2023
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Dan Enache Poem
In a boundless night, I slip through the veils of undefined time,
where I glimpsed you as a star lost in an ocean of abyssal dreams,
in a silk delirium of shadows dancing ceaselessly,
where the golden horizon melts dreams into dawn, like fire melting brass.
With hands that have never touched you, I reached out like a bird to the sky,
whispering your name, a sweet echo in the unknown air of the heart,
and when you came, like a breath of wind bringing spring—
I did not lose myself in wonder, but felt the fullness of eternity.
I just sighed deeply, like a spring finding its way to the river,
as if I had waited for ages to immerse my soul in your presence,
the moment your steps enter my waking world, like a dance of spirits,
like an ancient longing finally fulfilled, like a story told by the wind.
The essence of time unravels into strips of light flowing like sand,
and I, a silent witness to this secret meeting, become part of the story,
I feel how silence turns to music and how each sigh is an eternal verse,
and how each sigh transforms into an eternal echo, like a call from the depths.
On the edge of the dream, your outline rises like a banner in the wind,
as natural as the sunrise embracing the mountains, a new beginning,
and I, a traveler between two worlds, recognize you as a part of me,
that was never lost, only hidden in the shadow of desire.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Enache Poem
In the silent night, when the moon pours its silver over the world,
I walk through the garden of shadows, seeking lost echoes,
I do not blame your steps for not staying,
But I accuse myself, the one who sought harmonies in your song,
The one who sought signs in your silence.
I do not blame your hands for crushing the butterflies,
But I take the blame for offering them a garden to rest their fragile wings,
I, the one who believed that seasons could be reborn from ashes,
The one who dreamed that the heart could be bandaged and restarted.
I do not blame your departure,
But I take the blame for loving a stranger,
I, the one who believed that love could break all barriers,
The one who hoped that your eyes would look back, even once.
I do not blame your indifference,
But I accuse myself for not being able to free my heart from its cage,
I, the one who wrote poems on the edge of an abyss,
The one who believed that perhaps, in my madness, I would be heard.
I do not blame your silence,
But neither do I blame myself for not ceasing to love,
I, the one who carried an unwritten story in my soul,
The one who sought answers in the stars and found only shadows.
In the silent night, when the moon pours its silver over the world,
I walk through the garden of shadows, seeking lost echoes,
And in every breeze, in every rustle of leaves,
I find a part of myself, the one who loved without asking for anything in return.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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Dan Enache Poem
I just want to speak to her, to tell her what whispers through my soul like a breeze,
But every time I try, the words remain buried deep,
Hidden in the corners of my heart like undiscovered treasures,
Drowning in silence, lost between thoughts and my voice, unheard.
I don't need grand poems, nor rhymes carefully chosen from the stars,
Just a simple verse, like a magic key, to unlock the quiet,
Which seems louder than my heartbeat in the night,
I wish to tell her how her presence lights up my days like a gentle sunrise,
But the conversation I imagine never finds its way out,
Will there be someone to lend me a few words, like a spell,
A melody, a spark, to transform this heavy and dense silence,
Into something she can truly hear and feel deep within her?
Thus, I remain a prisoner of silence, with a soul longing to soar,
Hoping that one day I'll discover that voice to deliver my message to her,
And show her how, in my heart, she is the song that echoes eternally,
An echo of light and love, to warm her days and nights.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Enache Poem
We were born with the gift of healing in our blood, we did not become healers along life's winding path,
We came as springs of solace, carrying the essence of healing like an ancient and sacred song,
Some of us are still searching for our deep roots in the soil of our being, discovering ourselves in the silence of time,
We came as storytellers, not by chance, but because we carried stories in our hearts always,
We are the songs of our ancestors, alive in every whisper of the wind passing through the vines of memories,
Some of us are still seeking our voice among the echoes of the past, weaving threads of gold and silver from history,
We were born artists, we did not become painters or sculptors under the weight of the world,
We came with art in our souls, we are rainbows woven into the fabric of life, vibrating with every color,
Some of us are still drawing our outlines on the canvas of destiny, seeking our own shades,
We did not become writers, dancers, musicians, peacemakers, but arrived as such spirits,
We are the symphony of creation, some still discovering their rhythm in the vast orchestra of existence,
We did not learn love along the journey, but came as love, we are the heart that beats eternally,
Some of us are still following the call, seeking to reveal love in every gesture, in every word,
We are explorers of the soul, sculpting reality with our bold and silent dreams,
As we seek meaning in the delicate weave of existence, we lose and find ourselves in the cosmic dance,
Like stars burning with pure passion, guiding seekers of truth along the paths of light and shadows.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Enache Poem
In the silent blizzard of my thoughts, I reflect upon the madness that unites the crowds,
Where the masses of individuals consider all who are not part of the collective madness to be insane,
Anyone who crosses beyond this thick wall of conformity,
It is natural for the masses to hate the man of truth: he is a sower of storms in their noisy calm.
With your lies, you feel safe, building walls of convenient fabrications,
And then, from the shadows he appears, unsettling the waters of your noisy tranquility,
He provokes your doubt, shakes your blind faith in the dogmas that have shaped you,
The truth, always in contradiction with the mask of the crowds, shines like a cold light in the night.
Truth is individual, like a solitary star on a dark velvet sky,
And the masses are not interested in truth, but in comfort, in simplistic consolation.
The masses seek only that bittersweet convenience without making any effort,
Preferring to relax in those comfortable illusions that serve only as a temporary balm for empty souls.
The masses are not composed of explorers, adventurers, or courageous people,
Who venture into the unknown without fear, risking their lives to discover meaning,
To understand life in all its complexity and dark beauty.
The masses only want to hear pleasant lies, to remain in their cozy corners, shielded from the challenges of truth.
The crowd hates those who want to be UNIQUE INDIVIDUALS,
Those who seek their own destiny, a path tread by individual steps,
A different lifestyle, carved in the stone of their own will.
In the depth of a conscience that flows like a river of silences,
I feel how the tranquility of conventional lies fades,
In a world where truth rarely finds its place,
A world where my name is just one among many,
But my soul screams to be heard, to be recognized in the silence of the crowd.
Along the path of shadows elongated by the eternal sunset,
In a world of broken dreams and fragile hopes,
We seek the lights of truth, deep and dark,
Where each step is a question without an answer.
Truth calls us, a burning call within,
The masses will never understand this call,
Preferring to drift in the grand ocean of their false calm,
But we, those who seek, those who dare,
Will traverse this silent blizzard, carrying truth in our souls,
Knowing that truth is itself a sublime form of solitude.
And thus, in our solitary solitude, we find ourselves,
We discover the untrodden path that only the brave can follow,
In a melancholic waltz of existence, where answers come and go,
But the search, the search continues, like an old song in the night,
And the truth remains – a fragile balance between the calm of lies and the storm of reality.
And in this quest, we become who we truly are,
Not just an echo in the crowd, but a unique, clear voice,
That shines in the darkness, defying the collective madness,
And finally, our truth, eternal and personal, offers us that true peace.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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Dan Enache Poem
There is a secret symphony in the whispers of the wind that caresses the earth,
a profound mystery hidden in the dance of trees bowing their leaves,
the ocean does not ask the moon why it pulls it with unseen force,
but we, made of stardust and dreams, seek answers in the shadows of time.
We ask the sky why the sun retreats into the abyss of night each evening,
why stars burn only to extinguish in the cosmic silence,
why hands part like waves from the shore.
But have you ever tried to catch the rain in your palms,
begging it to remain as an eternal memory?
Some things are meant to pass through us like the dream of a sleeping god.
Being alive is not about having stone-cold certainties,
nor being devoid of fears or feeling whole.
It is to dance in the moonlight knowing the music will stop,
to love like a flame, knowing hands will let go.
It is to walk through the fire of life and call it warmth,
to embrace the night as a river that holds the endless sea.
Why do we cry for the passage of time,
when time has never shed a tear for us?
You hold a moment in your palm and feel it dissolve into eternity,
you speak a name and its echo is lost in the abyss.
Life was never meant to be caught in chains—
only felt in the intensity of each moment and lived with an open heart.
Dawn does not bring promises written in stars, nor do waves make eternal vows,
the simple fact that you are here, breathing, is enough to create magic.
The universe owes you no meaning, but here you are—breathing, feeling, laughing.
You are the miracle you sought in the silence of endless nights.
Let your voice resound like a song of the wind even when it trembles,
let your hands create worlds even when they waver,
let your heart open like a night-blooming flower even when it fears the unknown.
What is the purpose of life if not to be touched by its mystery?
Hold the light tightly, even when the sun sets in the arms of night,
sing the melody of your soul even when your voice trembles under the weight of emotions.
For being alive does not mean to endure forever like a star,
but simply to exist, to feel deeply, to be part of the miracle of creation.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Enache Poem
Happiness, a silent dawn, is born beneath the eyelids of sleep,
Smiling like a stolen kiss from paradise,
In the dream of the night that just melted into the morning light.
It is the love for the morning
You always despised, now illuminated by a different hope.
Happiness, the sudden revelation of a smile
Curled on your cheeks, a secret unknown,
Is being a jester of your own inner world.
Happiness, a mad dance amidst daily chores,
Is the energy that fills your soul,
A burning desire to set everything in order, to make everything shine.
Happiness, staring fixedly at a blank page for days,
Is not knowing what to write about,
Because you are too elated, too full of life to find the words.
And yet, I dread this:
To trade the moon that embraced me tenderly,
To trade the nights where the ceiling grew weary
Of my lost gazes,
To trade the darkness that consoled me
For a small, cold glimpse of light.
I do not know how to be happy
Without feeling I’ve done a great injustice to the universe.
I am in constant penitence
For these empty pages, for the unfulfilled dreams.
I have survived the vast ocean of sorrow;
I fear I cannot survive the calm shore of happiness.
Happiness, a fragile dream in which I lose myself,
Is like a spider web, delicate and ephemeral,
Stretched between the silently falling stars,
It embraces me with its fragile arms,
And I fear to break it,
To chase it away with my burning, unbridled desires.
In the depths of the night, I seek solace
In the darkness, I find my peace,
But happiness, my rare and precious guest,
Whispers stories I cannot listen to without losing myself.
I glimpse it among the shadows of my thoughts,
But I retreat, fearful,
Not to lose it, not to lose myself in its overwhelming light.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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Dan Enache Poem
In the realm of beguiling shadows where illusions paint the sky,
The bias for balance is ignored, as reason takes its flight.
Disregarding the light of truth, madness steers the moral tales,
Woven through repetitive histories, hearts are chained in the prisons of insanity.
Divide and conquer, their ancient script,
In this illusion of choice, we step on a false stage.
Stones are thrown at the poet's fragile glass house,
Hypocrisy overshadows common sense, allowing deceit to pass.
With pen and sword, deceit weaves its dark attire,
Propaganda, a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing entire.
In a minefield of twisted visions, obscurity feeds on souls,
Nurturing the monsters born from the cries of broken foals.
Forgotten are the teachings of shattered hearts,
While hope falls, a victim of unspoken words.
Oppression and inequity shout loudly in the tears of the privileged,
As the waters of decadence spill, unloosing the poet's glass walls.
Through the mist of silent nights, hope dares not retreat,
Under the weight of a starless sky, it stumbles on weary feet.
Yet within the shadowed depths, a truth barely glows,
A beacon through the darkness, ever softly it shows.
For in the darkest corners, truth leaves an eternal trace,
A faint echo, a whispered note, in search of its rightful place.
In the heart where illusions crumble, the soul finds sweet release,
And the poet’s glass house, though fragile, finds true peace.
Mystical winds of destiny, spread your veiled wings,
Through twilight realms and silent screams, where the lost heart sings.
In a dance of shadows and light, the mystic path reveals,
Where the lines of fate intertwine with the soul's forgotten tales.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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