Dream

“Our dream is not a shadow, but another space,
Where heart and truth are not mere conversation.”

In the dream I walked… not on earth, but on nothingness,
With a pale and wild stride, I tore through the dark,
Like the wind that summoned the opening of doors
To the eternal ache pulsing within my chest.
Above me – a deadened sky,
Void of stars and moon – like a primordial sin,
My step, like a memory unforgotten,
Led not forward, but deep into the nocturnal abyss.

It was not a voice that beckoned, but a gray gaze,
One I had met once in the bright days of yore –
And from it, as if from a wounded heart,
Echoes surged into the deepening gloom.
She stood in a field of obsidian,
Without body, name, or raiment –
Only her will burned with the intensity of that stare,
Whispering: “Return.”

But I could not. I was held fast
By the traces of severed paths,
Like the silhouettes of those who slept in hell
Yet resurrected in the dreams of old.
I heard how my chest tore from within,
How the bird of sorrow beat against its cage –
This dream was both truth and judgment,
A life I had never truly dared to live.

I awoke… the day remained silent.
But the phantom of her eyes
Lingered with me, for as long as
Loss continued to breathe inside my soul.

“She stood – a ghost of redemption,
And I was a sinner bereft of words…”

I am in the dream again. And it is not the earth
That sustains my stride – but the unknown,
Where time has congealed, where the moment is a name,
And every intake of breath is an act of exile.

Before me – a garden of fractures:
Black trees – the embodiment of grief,
And their leaves whispered to the traumas
That I had left her – as a bitter regret.

She sat amidst the wind,
Clad in white – not for the taking of vows,
But for the granting of forgiveness. Her face –
Nothing but silence, absolute and unburdened.

“Why do you come to me again?”
She whispered, without meeting my gaze.
“When in the days of my boundlessness,
You chose another – wicked and translucent?”

I became the echo of my own nights,
Where hot blood serves as the only currency of debt.
“I did not seek,” I said, “but within her,
I found not myself. Only the hollow of loss.”

“Forgive me – and curse me,
But grant me one final look…”

SHE:
You possessed me as the wind possesses
The spring flower on the edge of the abyss.
You thought: I will vanish – and you will not become used
To praying to the heavens in the silence of the mute?

I:
I was not a god, but a mere hesitation,
I did not hold – I did not arrive.
And your faith, like a tightening cord,
Held me bound, stripped of all artifice.

SHE:
Then who are you, my sickly shadow?
A lover? A traitor? Or a poet?
If you were walking away – why do you mourn?
And why drag your heart into another dimension?

I:
Because I am within you – like breath in the fields.
Because I am within you – without the possibility of return.
And every day – is a slow, agonizing
Expiation of my own forgetting.

“He who awakens – is he who repents.
Yet not all reach the end…”

I opened my eyes. Everything was mute.
In the room – the stained glass of the wind.
But her face remained standing
In the air – as if poised on the threshold.

Neither scream nor tears shall erase
That which burned in the silence of the dream.
For a dream is not a fabrication, but the essence,
That scorches the soul – like a verse composed in fire.

“Not all are given the grace to reach the temple –
Some expire upon the threshold…”

I rose. Not a body – but a shell.
Not a day – but a black void.
My hand – not for control,
But for the cross that carries the weight of the shadow.

I walked not toward her forgiveness –
But toward oblivion, as if toward the dawn.
In every stone – the echo remains
Of those words I never dared to speak.

I need no mountain atonements,
For my sin was not in that guilt.
But in the fact that I could not grasp
When she was still appearing… in my dreams.

The world had not changed. Only within my chest
Something extinguished – quietly, like a spent fire.
I smiled, as if in the moment of death,
I finally heard her say “farewell.”

“I was a poet – but without the word.
I was a lover – without love.
I was alive – but never managed
To learn how one lives without dreams.”