#The Song of the Fracture#

[نورالدين بليغ]

#The Song of the Fracture#

"Adapt," a hollow voice whispers,
In the throat of time that's wearing thin.
It applauds the shadow that disguises,
Behind a mask of hideous thorns within.
I adapted, a mirror of a great delusion,
Where mad faces contort in a fake elation.
I trade my joy for a mournful sigh,
And embrace the night that burns without desire.
For the stars have turned to shards of glass,
Piercing the sky with a bitter gleam that won't pass.

"You are sane," they cry in a choir of silence,
For I play their game, in my last defense.
I follow the wind, the branches of suffering,
And celebrate the death of a butterfly without questioning.
I am not sane, for I drank that venom,
And bent myself to the serpents for no reason.
I drank of illusion until betrayal,
Becoming the shadow that has no horizon to hail.

"Sickness is deviance," they all have said,
But the sickness here is to not be led,
By the living who are dead, with souls so hollow,
Who refuse to buy happiness at a price so shallow.
It's the one who finds in solitude peace,
The sweet melody of a flute that brings a release
From people who sing the songs of servitude.
It is the soul's health, that refuses to be subdued,
And makes of its difference a light that shines bright,
Illuminating the sea of those lost in the night.

The illness is not isolation, but adherence,
To the path to the abyss, in that final dance.
So, singular heart, do not fear distrust,
For being a stranger among faces of dust.
Because your unique being is a hope's last chance,
Saving the dark horizon from its final errance,
And the voice of truth, whose echo, in its power,
Shall return and make silence tremble and flower.

#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#