Harbors of Silence: The Final Epilogue

With the first glimmers of dawn, the mist of melancholy anchors in my eyes, placing the frost of farewell upon a brow that has become as pale as death. It is the hour of the great severance; to my faithful pen, and to my muse—who was for so long my only compass—I now prepare to utter the word that will incinerate my soul.
​From the depths of a funereal drawer, I unearth those yellowed papers; the frail witnesses in which the ink froze the return of my eternal sorrows. These tales, secrets, and fantasies are now naught but ghosts of hopes lost in the depths of my long winter. With a dry movement, devoid of any shadow of regret, I shatter them, tear them apart, and cast to the wind words that oblivion has already craved. I grant these lines neither a look nor a final sigh, but instead offer an icy shroud to the echo of my own voice.
​My pen, like a deceived lover, whispers pleas to my stony heart; I stifle its voice, I flee from its presence, yet it clings to my footsteps, struggling desperately against that "mute death" I have locked upon it.
​Suddenly, from this forced silence, a fierce rage erupts; its voice rises, drowning in wailing and rebellion. I tremble, a prisoner of its cries, yet I persist in my willful deafness. It questions me then: “Have you forgotten our solitary retreats? Do you see me as having ceased to be the friend who lit the darkness of your insomnia? She who danced between your fingers to carry your highest values, asking for nothing but your listening?”
​It reminds me of the hours of transfiguration, when my mind was ablaze, and when its ink flowed through my veins to resurrect me from nothingness: “What crime have I committed to deserve this morning rejection? Have I become a winter burden, or a heavy shadow, for you to strike me down so?”
​I move away, fleeing its agony and eternal moaning; yet in my bitter wandering, it does not concede defeat. Instead, it goes forth to announce my loss to the world, crying out to hearts to revive my path and extract fire from the ruins of my absence. While I was begging for forgetfulness and tranquility, I was struck by the echo of other voices carried by its cry, hitting me like a thunderbolt.
​Under the weight of this collective clamor, my heart softened for a moment; it seemed my anger was vanishing like the steam of a storm, and the illusion of return almost overcame me. But it was only the final gasp of the ember before suffocation. I realized, in the heat of this confrontation, that if writing was my "Golgotha," it was no longer my path.
​I look at my pen, that remaining vestige of an empire of words whose pillars have crumbled, and I feel nothing but the exhaustion of the defeated. The world’s calls, those hymns trying to revive my legacy, are to me but distant echoes, void of meaning. Why persist in tracing furrows in the ash? Why the desire to kindle a fire that has already consumed me?
​With a slow gesture and regal sternness, I close this funereal drawer. I am no longer a slave to the Muses, nor a guardian of sorrows; I have chosen the stillness of the void and the dignity of silence. Let my pen cry its misery to the stars as it wishes; I remain true to my covenant with deafness. The contract is broken... I finally move toward the horizon of the unknown, leaving the ink to dry forever.
​The poet is dead, and silence, from now on, is my only, most magnificent homeland.