Notes from author
The Inhabited Void
In you, the echo is mute, the gesture is vain,
A stage without actors, nor song.
Deprived of the warmth that the soul harbors,
You live life, but life eludes you.
There is no pain that wounds you, nor pleasure that touches you,
A heart of stone, where time plays its trick.
The colors of the world are gray in your gaze,
And the sea of emotions cannot reach you.
You are the absence that closes in on itself,
A vast field where nothing else thrives or cries out.
Apathy is your cloak, silence, your home,
In a hollow existence, unable to feel or love.
You do not know what a burning tear is,
Nor the contagious laughter that does not delay.
You are a specter, a shadow without light,
A being devoid of the life that guides.
But in this non-feeling, perhaps there is peace,
A silent harbor, where the storm does not rage.
For he who does not feel the abyss, does not fear the fall,
He merely exists, on an eternal and cold path.
Absence, for you, is perhaps not a lack,
But a blank state, a high truth.
And so you continue, neutral, without direction or passion,
A deprived being, in complete solitude.
