Every song does never end, some dreams do never fade, some walls shall never fall, as beauty stands to time, so do stars stand to us, in ever-distant embrace, we live for distant times
A dream so sweet that I have tasted, savoured it more often than I should, the ancient ruins lie that concealed speak of decaying pomp and beauty behind the wall that deters lovers, invites young dreamers to think of lands and stories that never were, might never be but could Dusk sets gently over rolling hills tree crowns taste the last of Helios' sacred blessings, when misty days turn, granting keys to this lost land to Selene, when silence reigns over glistening lakes, nothingness commands the singing of birds, only dreams remain of this land yonder time Oh! Stories I have heard from this land, by the cracking fire, with hushing voices, distant love and plot, told with fiery eyes, leafing gentle thoughts to blossom to desire, a will to explore, to see through eyes of my own marvels yet untold, mysteries to be initiated into; purposes well-contrived for perilous a journey! Brumous winds, low-hanging clouds enclothe my journey, up the hills that greet my coming with joyful green, mighty, rushing streams whose voices seem known, and as the sun carriage crosses the skies, my eyes gaze upon the mighty gates of bronze and iron, solemn guards of this temple of a golden age that keeps minds twisted and secrets bare A torch flares in my hand, emblazing ancient murals, that have suffered fate and time, yet unfazed; beyond the gate silvery florals sprawl, mellow, silky fragrance of intricate care, varicolored scenery, fruits of a beautiful mind, night and day in celestial dance, united by the choir of stars; speckling waters with light Marvels from another world, I stumbled more than I walk'd in the gardens, helpless like a child, no more than I am a poet, ablaze with emotions that descend from high, like glaciers crumble in the yet far away mounts, gushing into the abyss, teeming with joy, my mind lends force to my steps, roaming over cobbled paths towards the palace Mighty tower on a hill, where only maimed kings offer respite from the suffering of their age, fractals chiselled into eternal marble, lancet arches line the walls, glass stained by unknown artisans, a place worth of an aging philosopher king, and as I turn my eyes away, looking to the still waters that revolve and never stop, a figure! "Who is this lone wanderer, in this late hour of night?", "Venture brought me here, for I fear no myth to dispel!" I said and the figure stepped outside the moonlit shadow, revealing himself to be a man of perennial age, and suddenly fear filled my heart, as I saw myself in the face of that fisher king; a self from another time, I saw what no one dared to see: myself as only I could be! Fear not the sight of yourself after many summers, marvel at that your life will take you far, and that every desolation's plight will fade away, so that one day you will meet yourself again; let us walk beneath the rushing trees and listen as night turns into song and cinnamon dreams cover the eyes of those who think of this summery place As we passed by the lake, illuminated by argentine glisters!, I saw who I would be: Spectred vision of dread and fear, unrequited love and hopes burst to salted tears; and as my face mirrored the anguish of a life to be, the fisher king said: For sooth! Things that could, a future where minds tormented are minds forlorn, where love is ornament in these words, yet a word to none Madness spirals into the cold of shadows that you brought upon yourself, where no light is there to guide; while the thundering wheels of hate never cease to impress their weight on your shoulders, setting fire to tranquil meadows, where once your mind found peace in solitude; never again! But seek one word to lift you out of nether-worlds! Through cold, howling winter we must all pass, when the perpetual motion of our life halts, leaden scars will hasten empty darkness, until from ombrous slumber you wake, to seek and explore a life not yet lived, roaming foreign lands that we call not home, until whispering voices draw you into spring where joy turns the spinning wheel of time, and flowers blossom in the gardens of life where only love can cure the wounds that never heal, and yet the rite of season never unveiled its chant to those who choose not to hear their inner voices and fear a stranger's word more than the ending of precious dreams that arise before morning's light And silence fell between myself and who I was to be, as another morning came, weaved in rosy-cotton haze, my mind was abound with thought and such was its state: "Has there ever been a spell more sweet than a life that offer solace in need? when the morning flock of thoughts fades into bliss, a joy ephemeral, yet so very lasting?"
Photo by Alberto Frías on Unsplash
Niclas F. Sturm 