A profound yearning echoes through these verses, a lament born from the crushing weight of existence itself. One finds oneself adrift in a world where love, though fierce and consuming, often battles against the dark footsteps of a Sky of Separation, a profound estrangement from one's own being. It is as if falling stars rain down so heavily that souls ignite, becoming twin candles whose fragile flames the Absurd of this World uses to illuminate the very Path of Death, a path ever-waiting, ready to swallow all into its own dark sensibility.
The sad dawns of Solitude relentlessly attempt to impose their own barren sentiments, dismissing the very notions of Longing and Waiting. At their gates, bloodied and endless sunsets weep, shedding tears of lead from the Eternities of Moments that ceaselessly wash over the ever-paler faces of the Cemeteries of Words. These are words that even farewell letters can no longer bear, too burdened by the weight of unexpressed truths and forgotten passions.
Yet, through this profound melancholy, a love persists, a love as pure and unwavering as the Sun of Truth gazing upon the Sky of Vision, or the Divine Light of Sacredness embracing its own essence. This is a love on whose wings one would wish to soar beyond any Horizon of Doubts, those nagging reminders of human limitation. It is a desperate desire to snatch the beloved from the clutches of Vanity, to bestow upon them Boundlessness, never truly believing that such devotion could fall from the Sacred Icons of a Love once worshipped alongside the angels of Feeling.
Now, those very angels are fallen, inhabiting the cold, sorrowful bodies of self-Oblivion. In this desolate state, one still searches, on the empty, frigid streets of Separation, for the cathedral of a Destiny where both shattered lives might once again find a place to kneel and worship. The very thought of shattering all the Walls of Traces that imprison Memories, if only to find the beloved once more, running across the vault of one's Dreams, just as when the first bouquet of Tear-Flowers was offered, scattered across the fiery shore of a heart battling fiercely against greedy, perfidious waves, fuels this enduring quest.
Existence itself is portrayed as a gamble, inextricably linked with Hope, never truly left to the whims of a free will that might alter anything. The only freedom that remains is the freedom to judge one's own existence, eternally confined, yet striving to overcome the absurd. The very fabric of being is a constant negotiation with illusion, with the fleeting nature of life and the inevitability of death, where true meaning is often sought in the depths of profound, even painful, emotion rather than detached thought.
Beneath the reflective surface of these poems lies a passionate core, a visceral outpouring of existential emotions. It is a lyricism that explores the depths of blame, piety, and a sublimated tenderness, sometimes veering into sentimentality, but always rooted in a raw, unvarnished confrontation with the human condition. The exasperation with the state of the world and human vanity, particularly the "Illusions of Existence," fuels a powerful, almost sarcastic, critique of societal decay, even extending to a profound irritation at the instrumentalization of faith.
This irritation, however, springs not from a lack of belief, but from an intense and pure faith, a devotional absolutism that seeks a "True God" distinct from the compromised deities of cathedrals. The challenge and blame found in the verses are but the reverse side of a desperate and passionate devotion, a fervent search for authenticity amidst a world of illusions. The philosophical inquiry into love, existence, and the absurd becomes a deeply personal journey, a meditation on the self and its place in an often perplexing universe.
