A candle dribbled boiling wax,
Its flame shined in a bronzen mirror.
No reflection was allowed if not the one of death,
I could hear its voice echoing in my head.
The bronzen mirror didn't reflect me,
its surface showed only time,
whose flowing inexorably devours everything.

Time flows.

Drawings of incomprehensible art formed by wax
meld till they form a perfect painting.
The bronzen mirror reflected a portrait of vanity,
like the glimmer of a dying flame.
Echoes of the past are getting fainter,
forever dominated by the voice of death.

By the voice of death.

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