Universes of Unlived Songs

My life is made of losses, of all that slipped away,
Of paradises forfeited, of forms the void can lay;
Where geometry of dreams that never came to be
Is pressed into the contours of a wavering vacancy.

Of trams that left on rails extending into space,
Their metal bells tearing the fog with ringing grace;
But now their routes are stubborn lines of will,
A last attempt to make the unreal plan stand still.

Of unlived songs, of fragments of a breath,
Where every line, like an orbit, traced its circle underneath;
But robbed of voice, within the act of silence,
It closed upon the inner ear, growing deaf in its reliance.

Each world is like a separate version of sense,
A revision of the self, a light held back in suspense;
Where reality has not so much vanished as stayed,
Transformed into a possibility already betrayed.

There are sunsets there that never became a fact to the eye,
There are words that never reached the shape of a sound passing by;
There, love exists as a measure of decay,
And as a way of failing to withstand the weight of separation's sway.

All worlds are not possessions, but a form of delay,
They cannot be handed over, nor explained away;
They linger in the pauses, the displacements, the dots,
Where the right still remains to be – and not.

And though my life is only a sum of deviations,
A map of failures shifted toward other destinations,
I learn within these fractures, these half-tones, these scars,
To preserve at least the semblance of meaning – wherever we are.

2026