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It is hard for me to find your path, to whisper to myself spells of solace,
To straighten my back and begin to believe
In the eternal possibility of tomorrow,
When maybe you will greet my feathers differently.
But it does not belong to me,
Just as no laughter and no scream are truly mine,
And the satchel full of dreams and agonies sinks somewhere at the shore of another frost.
Thus, I gather extinguished wishes, both mine and yours,
And I hope, from my naive soul, that you will change your cloak,
That the weary masks will metamorphose into beings.
I sporadically drown my way and move toward that blind gray,
Where neither existence nor nonexistence holds meaning,
Where everything is but a pitiful blend of faded threads in the sand.
I carve into cedar wood the last breath of the last mask,
Cracking beneath the root of fire and shattering into splinters of burden—
The face of a new self.
I have painted an ocean in golden waves without seeing the distance,
The porcelain archipelago remains touched by waters even today,
Unable to form a new "him."
I suffocate my free question marks, hoping to discover something in the sand,
In your artificial unraveling.
Perhaps you needed to hear the last piano note, the final spell.
Perhaps it was meant for the pawn to reach the end,
To mercilessly defeat the raven, to slay the fool,
And to feel a first victory, yet a final checkmate...