A profound, melancholic whisper echoes through the boundless expanse, questioning the very tears that fall from the eyes of the Angels of Love. Why do they weep at the windows of Paradise, when truth itself seems to have been lost to the worn dice of a future that forgot to share its winning numbers with us? It is a cry born from the depths of an existence intertwined with the profound sorrow of a love that believed, in its infancy, that our gaze would forever belong to it, across the Horizons of Infinity where it so often loved to run.
One finds oneself racing through sheaves of Dreams, severed by the sickle of Death's Illusions, laid upon the brow of the Wrinkles that have torn us from ourselves. We drown in the incandescent lava of Remorse, from whose very body we have forged Hearts of Turmoil, meant to crush our Hopes with their uncontrolled, absurd, and cold beats – hopes that still dare to inquire about us.
Rain falls, comprised of the Stone Hearts of Memories, upon the Endless Solitude that we are fated to accompany on its journey toward Death. To this end, we owe our very Love, which has rusted at the corners of Expectations, ever longer and more unbearable, for a Happiness that has withered in the bouquet of Regrets offered at the ball of a Destiny so corrupted by Life's Illusions. So much so, that none of us ever knew that even before birth, we were embalmed by Suffering in the Non-Sensicalities of Existence, belonging to a God of No One.
The very essence of being is often defined as a gamble, a perilous wager accompanied by Hope, yet never surrendered to the whim of free will. This freedom, if it truly existed, might allow for change, but instead, it confines us to merely judging our own existence, eternally fenced in, striving to overcome the absurd. Love, in its purest form, has been carved from the Loneliness, from the Rock of Tears, from the Eyes of Eternity itself. These depths have been scrutinized with the sharp edge of Questions, the very questions that built the image of Love, framed within the Sky of your Eyes, an Icon of Absolute Truth. To this Truth, one prays to remain oneself, the wanderer.
We erect the walls of our shelterless Identities with increasingly ailing Moments, moments that seem destined never to heal from the chill of Absurdity's Infidelities. In its embrace, we are compelled to bear upon the shoulders of Impotence the Burden of so many Vanities, growing heavier and more devoid of Meaning. We search in vain for the Path to reunite on the zebra of Good and Evil with a saving Death, the very companion with whom we first crossed paths in the luminous Spring of budding Feelings, whose Leaves seem to have fallen long before Time itself, from branches now barren and dry.
The journey through this landscape of the soul is a profound and poignant exploration of the ties between Love and the Illusions of Life and Death, a tapestry woven with philosophical threads that question the very fabric of being. It is a passionate declamation, born perhaps from a deep, internal trauma that the poet strives to exorcise and elevate, rather than from a serene peace of mind or reflective harmony.
