The Final Verse

The Final Verse

 

If I were to weave a final verse,

its rhyme would be: "solitary,"

murmured in all languages,

like a sigh dying in the shadows.

It would claim nothing,

a simple echo, a complaint,

a fragile cry falling asleep in the hollow of silence.

 

Oh my sweet,

don't force me to write it,

don't break this sweet lie,

after so many hours when I feigned brilliance,

when I embroidered the illusion of an endless dream.

I have finally built a palace of dreams,

where failure no longer troubles the mirror,

and I want to remain there,

to sing again, sheltered from the cruel winds.

 

Let me reign in this nameless kingdom,

the one I sculpted with my pale hands,

place my silver crown on a throne of mist,

and taste the eternity of a stolen moment.

Let me embrace everything,

be the flame and the ash,

the burning dragon and the icy spear

that pierces it.

 

For you,

I would like to be both,

in our fatal and sublime ballet.

 

Angus Firelyte

Done