The soul of the golden jester flies,
suspended in the air of a treacherous wind
that ambushes overjoyed (like a garrulous phantom in disguise)
and across fertile pastures, bathed by silver dew,
Forged once again in the heart of our most profound and intimate remembrances,
by the ancestral blacksmith of early mornings,
Who has passed by.

As the sun rises slowly,
weighing heavily like a red-hot anvil
subtly halted at the entrails of an ancient volcano
that boils with shimmering golden melting lava
flowing powerfully throughout labyrinthine internal streams,
where the sound of a harsh hammer
blows over pastel color, dream-like thoughts,
making a lavish but secret, muffled sound
while plotting the promises
that will shape our existence as the diurnal hours elapse.

And in the end,
vanishing in a blurring dusk
that, on this occasion, had chosen to dress capriciously
In an opulent satin night gown full of brilliant yellow stars
(like the ones worn by mortals at the inescapable fall
into the precipice located right below and amongst the end of times)
within fragmented swift intervals
of crimson, purple, and violet tides,
shadowing our already short-sighted and tired eyes,
to give way towards a blackout nightfall by surprise.

However,
we have mercifully seen it
repeatedly,
So many times.