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Grey and deformed image
reflected in the silver,
engraved by time, corroded by an unvoiced wind.

Like a ship at the mercy of the waves,
you advance motionless.

...no mortals will come to learn of what
only gods are allowed to know by nature,
but the sublime recapitulation of pain
distorts the mind raising it to the Celestial Science...

Dragged by a memory towards nothing,
like Icarus you offer your body to destiny
that is never replete of human torments

The soul is in Eros' hands,
and he plays with it like an infant;
no one raise the fire shining beneath the ash,
no one wake the beast sleeping silent.

A disharmonious adoration, to you,
under a futuristic mantle of stars.
Love is an idealistic suicide?

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