In the gloaming hour, when whispers kiss the twilight,
a soul, adrift on winds colder than the brass music of fate,
pens memories on the ochre walls of forgotten dreams.
A harmonized refrain—sung by none, heard by many,
echoes through the cavernous heart of the unknowing.
Spain ablaze in autumn's dust,
the tango of decay waltzes gently through the streets,
past shutters clad in curtains of rust,
inviting azure memories of a summer long dizzying and fair.
Here, the lost constructs bridges from rainbows,
a kaleidoscope of silence,
arching over the river of their melancholia.
Beyond the stained glass horizon,
flickers the eternal lantern of possibility.
Lifting the veil, one gazes—
a rare audacity in visualizing the unseen,
yet wiser souls recognize the refrain:
the silken tether binding serenades to unsung tales.
Surrender not to the structure of despair,
but let it be the brass that tempers your soul's strings.