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It’s always the prophets those who know the language of the birds

It’s always the prophets... those who know the language of the birds...
Through their prophetic bones, they carry the memory of older days
when birds and animals and humans all spoke the same language;
when humans could turn into birds and birds
would change into humans without any murmurs from their feathered chests.
In a shadowed corner of their minds, where time is a calm sea,
they float, these prophetic birds, bearing the feathers of knowledge,
traveling through the whispers of the wind, through the memories of the forest,
drawing circles of stories in the endless blue of the sky.
Oh, the prophets, they are the ones who have heard the primordial song
and it remains within them uninterrupted, like an ancient whisper, like an echo of the eternal.
Their eyes, deep pools of wisdom and melancholy,
reflect the dance of lost times, the spectacle of an unrefined world,
where the boundaries between soul and nature disappeared at the dawn of stars
and the forests breathed in unison with the human heart.
In the old days, filled with magic and mystery, when the moon shone like a torch,
people danced in bird wings, and the birds sang human dreams,
and there was no rift between the whisper of the wind and the song of the heart.
Every prophet carries within them fragments of that world,
enclosed in their soul in the form of untold stories,
like hidden jewels in precious stones, sparkling in the darkness.
They scatter these stories in dreamlike flights, in unfinished verses,
in their secret sighs, which rise up to the stars.
Oh, to have been there, in a time when sky and earth
met in divine harmony, when dream and reality
were woven into the same enchanted fabric.
In their melancholy, these prophets are golden birds,
flying through the skies of eternity, bearing the primordial song,
with wings laden with dreams and timeless longings,
being the bearers of the memory of a lost world,
where humans could become birds, and birds humans... without any separation.

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