There is no hope for brighter days, nor horizons from which resolution may dawn. The days drift by, the skin withers, and in the eyes lingers the ache of what was lost, lost even before it could be lived, severed, never to have existed yet fervently yearned for… illusions, disappointments.

In those eyes reflects a shadow destined to fade when the eyelids close, forever. The shadow of dreams unrealised, never shared.

What remains, alas, is the impertinence of the crowd, the malice and irresponsibility of those who could have given but chose not to; of those who, instead of offering a gentle touch, opted to point the finger; of those who, rather than seeking to understand, inflicted deeper wounds, for the world is a stage of tainted and wicked souls. Even the popes, shrouded in golden chains, are ensnared by greed.

There is no hope for brighter days, nor horizons from which resolution can rise. The sun will forever ascend, yet it will illuminate a world adrift, devoid of love and hope, a desert of sorrowful hearts, where solitude and misery reign supreme.

Valentina  
(Nothing to do with A. Schopenhauer)

Penny Black ©