There’s nothing to mourn about death, any more than the blooming of a rose
There’s nothing to mourn about death, any more than the blooming of a rose,
What’s truly terrible isn’t death, but the lives that are wasted.
People lose their essence in the abyss of forgetfulness,
Throwing their days into an ocean of ignorance, foolish and uncaring.
They live in the shadow of an empty existence, lost in the mundane void,
Too concerned with trivialities: physical desires, movies, money, family, desires again.
Their minds are traps of web, swallowing divinity and country without question.
Their minds, once a magical forest, have now become a desert,
Allowing others to plant foreign thoughts, they’ve forgotten their own magic.
Their brains, stuffed with cotton, no longer have room for clarity,
Seeming shaded from all that is divine, strangers to any spark of desire.
In the face of the grandeur of universal music, they remain deaf and incapable,
Swaying in the silence of a muted noise, unable to reach their own souls.
The sad truth is that the death of most is an illusion,
For there’s nothing left to lose in an unfulfilled life.
People become shadows of their own wasted destiny,
Phantoms crawling through life without feeling their true calling.
Slowly, they lose the brilliance of the sky, and their souls become a flickering memory,
Wrapped in a veil of helplessness and quiet sorrow.
The romance of life extinguishes like a flame in the depths of the ocean,
And dreams once pure get lost in the void of forgetfulness.
Nothing remains to die, for their lives are already sealed by the mark of wasted time,
Mystery vanished in a world of ash and lost echo.
In this gloomy landscape of shadows and extinguished dreams,
Souls have lost their shining divine spark.
Ugliness becomes the norm, and beauty a vaporized dream,
Yet among the ruins of forgotten consciousness, maybe, just maybe,
A spark of light will be reborn to embrace the cosmos.
For those seeking the courage to truly feel and live,
Perhaps the glory of the spirit will be reborn in a divine dance.
Let us no longer mourn death, but mourn the lost life,
And seek our lost magic in the labyrinth of being.
For there, at the verge of thoughts and silent dreams,
Lies the mystery, unseen and eternally shining,
A place where the cotton disappears, and the mind regains its light,
In that discovery, we will find the lost fragment of ourselves,
And live our true lives, wrapped in grandeur and light.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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