12 Seasons Of Midnight { ENG Ver }

2. The Eclipse of the Writer

In a remote clearing
With trees piercing the green sky of forests
And on a translucent lake
Two swans with night and day feathers
An eclipse of dawn and dusk
An explosion of light and darkness
Chasing each other like two shooting stars

Who will prevail ?
The perfect balance in a fog of war
Their poetry flowed to the depths of the silent water
Like a chest full of treasures
A tragedy whose bitterness will linger forever on my tongue

I crossed paths with the angel of death
It was so glorious not to see him, but to feel him so close to me
Breathing down my neck with every hesitant step, following my every trembling step of excitement
It was as if I was between phantom arms guiding me toward my fall so I could finally fly
For it is only by falling into the void that my wings will emerge

I wrote my letters on clear skies
My torments in the grey storms
My anger in the bluish flashes of lightning
Half of my heart buried
Half my soul left me for a world I could never reach

In the heavy silence of the tumultuous minutes
I lie on the needle of time
I play with the specks of the hourglass
A child lost in a white desert
A bleeding child whose wounds have never known dressings

The crown in one hand
The saber in the other
Who to strike first ?
The treacherous hope or the mad despair ?

Blinded by the brilliance of dreams
Moving toward the unknown without clear purpose
My nightmares full of defeats
I hold out my hand, my weapon, and my throne
To blend my breaths with the clouds
To swim in the vastness of galaxies
And forget myself in the dust of rebellious stars

I offer half of my damaged heart to no longer burn from the cold
I leave behind my iron chains for the sensation of a free wind
I expose my fires to the cool breezes of a summer evening
I whisper my prayers in the sweetness of the night
And I forget myself again and again, in the sad dances of autumn and summer
The death of a sun and the arrival of a winter without comfort

Like an exiled
Like a stranger in his own home
It was a whole combination of seasons inside of me
So many decades and so many stories rooted in the redness of my veins
Like an untitled book in an abandoned library

I was but a poem recited to inebriety
A verse without rhymes
An ending with a question mark
I was but a mystery erased from minds
Hidden in a chest without keys
Like a hastily written phrase on a letter without a recipient, cast into turbulent seas

I was that writer by the lake, listening to the universe confide its secrets to my blackened leaves
I was but the girl with a raging pen, a lost gaze, and a wistful smile
I was but the girl whose words constantly sought a book in which to be painted.