In the silver of dreams, where the ethereal impulse dies,
An idea drifts, pure as the mist.
Its touch is an echo devoid of wounds,
Its absence – a boundless horizon.
A primordial shadow, an eternal gaze,
It ascends through the ice into words.
And the mirror of silence is a depth,
Where form sleeps in flawless light.
Oh white sorrow, languishing between forms,
Yearning for incarnation, yet failing to reach it,
It locks the doors of the world with its cold.
And I vainly bend my pen through the haze,
To carve out meaning – an invisible dream,
Which shall never be able to convey itself to the world.
The Unattainable
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