Through the galleries of dreaming, where evening strings its somber beads

Through the galleries of dreaming, where evening strings its somber beads, The echo of a twilight stifles discreetly on the plain bound for eternal crossing; Floating, floating over the velvet of darkness seeking its release. Diaphanous sages, adorned with the silver of silence, For their words have not shaken the profound realm with arrows of stars, they Do not willingly cast their shadow toward the white of the star losing its shine. Brave ones of the dying time, in an epilogue heavy with the longing for lost mornings, Their wavering merits could have frolicked in the green pen of hope, Cry out, cry out in the dusk of fascination that drifts into slumber. The visions that gathered and sang the revolution of the daytime sphere, Having understood, with the turning of the hourglass, that their diligence slips into a sweet shadow, Do not surrender softly under the caress of the evening that drips. Solemn entities at the rubicon of departure, who signal through a gesture unveiling the mystery, Ephemeral glances could dance like meteors and wear the smile of life, An enchantment, enchantment against the dimming light that timidly withdraws. And you, patriarch of memory, lost on the crest within the sorrowful sarcophagus of pine needles, Please, now bind me with your crystalline tear the story. Do not follow your course towards the great silence that has unfurled its sails. Dance, dance in the contradiction of the darkness swallowing its own glimmer within.