False dialogues are worse than tribal burial grounds. To set oneself apart from such carnage, one must live far removed from the bloody wars that demand blind obedience. True justice begins to falter, vanishing into an abyss that has devoured everything and everyone—all while criminal warmongers, often cloaked as saints, bear witness to the manifestation of their own eternal nightmare. Even blood itself had come to recognize the bitterness of exile. A gaze—cautious, unsettling—wandered among the corpses, some decomposing, others still warm and mutilated by famished beasts, capturing the grim scene for eternity. The silence froze the blood; the breath became a master of mental discipline, hardening into stone, yet capable of deciphering thoughts and piercing through mere appearances. The phantom of the century moved forward, trailing the dust of time; pain braved the storm, swallowing curses and hysterias, surging furiously through the baleful eye of hell.
Yet Love—springing from the depths of an intense heart—can also caress the soul with sweetness and warmth, transforming into the rustle of the most profound desire, reaching a dizzying, lyrical height. At this time of year, the Eleusinian Mysteries are celebrated: a rite of death and rebirth, a symbolic journey into darkness, only to re-emerge into the light. So it was for the Greeks, who bequeathed to us their wisdom—thinkers such as Heraclitus, Parmenides, Empedocles, and Pythagoras. All of this serves to help us know ourselves and our own vulnerabilities, so that we might grasp the supreme vision of the Unity of all things. Darkness is the ascent that leads to God. Pain is the fire that tempers steel; through it, the soul undergoes both death and rebirth. It is the metamorphosis of restlessness. One must bring order to chaos; truth dons the cloak of resistance, light-years removed from the imprisonment of the abyss.
In a sanctuary of bile, death took its vows. Solitude appeared wrapped in a veil of stone. Pain skated across the ice, its flame sterile. Waiting is a graveyard of enigmas; leaves scatter like lost souls, and tears sink into open wounds. Even dreams emerge from their graves. The season of peace is arid; no one recognizes its ordeal. The rose refuses to be removed from its vase—its thorns are skilled warriors. Beyond all deceptions, they share this sacred desolation with the night.
The pulse whispers—its rhythm is rational, ambitious, strategic; in terms of mental versatility, it is unmatched. Dawn is analytical and precise; as a master organizer, it possesses the power to transform chaos into order. It turns darkness into a rosebush, and the shadows expand. The word cannot be bought or bent; the cry cannot be broken. Through an origami window of light—beyond the reeds, beyond the deceptions—the word rises again like an Amazon: original, nonconformist, logical, creative, and unpredictable. The power of its thought defies all conventions. Elsewhere, evil continues to applaud. Some would seek to turn oblivion into a miraculous—or perhaps hallucinogenic—remedy. The wounds of modernity are deep and invisible—much like war, which leaves us with nothing but a landscape of rubble. Everything festers within the horror of a silence born of the most ruthless complicity. Trauma descends like a rain of missiles. The innocent are sacrificed by the very same monster that turns their dreams into necropolises.
The moon appeared as a tormented soul, suspended in the rigidity of the silence. Beyond the mystery, a light shower of stars traversed the heart of time and History.
Maria Teresa Liuzzo
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