Being steeped in melancholy

Being steeped in melancholy,
 Keeping the meaning of such a will in sleeps,
 Despondency was born in agony ,
Having  a chance to take  my feels.

Had passed  the time in thoughts, and  watched  in  mirrors.
How fast time rushes, revealing  our steps,
Rejecting mortality in flesh of willings,
So coolly observes these  sweeps,trying to confuse ones  steps.

 Had burnt  the wings believed at once in happiness,
The thread  of indecision asked in vain :
"Doesn't   intention  thread  that wants  flesh  to  kill a day?"
And   the night  responding:"Nay."

Reflect  the life in which you're carried ,
 The shadow fears do not destroy the sleeps.
I'm not comforted by the timelife  difference,
And the fact that every hit makes sense.

I understand  the gap of  generations,
where the ideal  thread 's been revealed by the voluptuousness of nights
 that were overturned, destroying  tone  in actions ,
Being  born in another dimension sleep,

Having appreciated the treasure, that God had given me,
 I sadly branded myself forever,
Closing  my soul against  the vulgarity of  intrigues ,
Fixing you  in all my dreams .