Parting
From the hands of trembling changes, not conquered, but occurred, you
receive a credence’s letter of partings, deserved by you, and
the meaning of events makes no sense, and the characters, like giants,
like Goliath of days, find in the future not the honors and not David,
but their own shadow, and this sacrifice with humility, inherent
to loneliness, allows to trample itself and to glorify the victory over
the faceless reflection of its defrauded illusions. Life dictates
the humility by the inertia of events, any desire neither to think nor
to guess, it’s time to say goodbye in thoughts, to live out another
quiet reality and to give to friends who don’t exist so long, the
opportunity to sing without voice, in two voices, and to offer them
to sing along, as they were rejected in their own hopes not by the
willfulness, by the dictateof the higher powers, but by the image of
a dream, Fata Morgana, walking along the sea of not dreams, but
dreaming, discharged at the level of open eyes with the coolness
of the night pupils, still calling into the labyrinth, where the
sentence to melancholy doesn’t announce the echo, but the generation
of the fate on the cards, dropped by the rains of crying tears.
receive a credence’s letter of partings, deserved by you, and
the meaning of events makes no sense, and the characters, like giants,
like Goliath of days, find in the future not the honors and not David,
but their own shadow, and this sacrifice with humility, inherent
to loneliness, allows to trample itself and to glorify the victory over
the faceless reflection of its defrauded illusions. Life dictates
the humility by the inertia of events, any desire neither to think nor
to guess, it’s time to say goodbye in thoughts, to live out another
quiet reality and to give to friends who don’t exist so long, the
opportunity to sing without voice, in two voices, and to offer them
to sing along, as they were rejected in their own hopes not by the
willfulness, by the dictateof the higher powers, but by the image of
a dream, Fata Morgana, walking along the sea of not dreams, but
dreaming, discharged at the level of open eyes with the coolness
of the night pupils, still calling into the labyrinth, where the
sentence to melancholy doesn’t announce the echo, but the generation
of the fate on the cards, dropped by the rains of crying tears.