Matin brumeux sur un lac endormi

No harsh decree disturbs that whispered breath,

No tempest roars to summon life from death;

Just mist, as soft as mourning’s quiet grace,

Enfolds the pale and solitary place.

Here strides Âme, a spirit draped in shade,

A soul in quest, through veils of silence made,

Her footsteps light upon the dew’s soft bed,

As though she seeks what lies beyond the dread.

Alone, yet drawn to ripples far and near,

She yearns to bend the glassy world, to peer

Through nature’s guise—its cryptic, meaninged art—

And find the truth that haunts her restless heart.

O Isolement! Thou art a sovereign throne,

On which the mortal mind must sit alone,

To weigh the weight of solitude’s deep hue,

And taste the bitter draught of being true.

A mirror lake, the soul’s own glass revealed,

Each ripple forged by shadows unconcealed.

Faces flicker in the water’s breath—

Phantoms of joy, of pain, of quiet death.

She pauses, caught within the drifting mist,

Where worlds converge and sunlight’s lips are kissed,

And wonders if the waking or the dream

Holds firmer claim upon the mutable gleam.

“Am I but phantom woven from the gray,

Or bearer of a dawn yet born to day?

Do these faint waves that quiver ‘neath my gaze

Proclaim my truth, or tell a stranger’s phrase?”

Her voice, a thread of sound in stilled expanse,

Seems swallowed by the silence that enchants.

No answer comes but echoes wrought of time,

Repeating riddles in a cryptic rhyme.

Oh, shall the soul be ship upon a sea

Without horizon’s promise to foresee?

Or is the voyage one of deep despair,

Yet crowned with hope’s elusive, tender air?

The day unfolds in layers soft and slow,

Each moment woven like a fragile bow,

Drawing tight the chords of heart and mind,

Until the stars of doubt become entwined.

Within her breast, a garden wild and steep,

Where longing blooms and shadows.sleep;

Yet in that tangled wood, a single clear

Light stirs—ambiguous, haunting, near.

An orb suspended ‘twixt the dark and day,

Neither sun nor moon, yet guiding her way.

She follows where the silver light may lead,

A pilgrim bound by neither hope nor creed.

And as the mists begin to slowly fade,

The lake reveals, beneath the dim cascade,

A city locked in languid memory,

Its spires dissolving into mystery.

Voices rise faintly from the mist-clad shore,

Faint echoes of lives lived long before.

Yet no soul greets her gaze with welcome here—

Only the vast, embracing atmosphere.

“Is this the truth? A world that veils the past,

A place where none shall bind the soul at last?

To drift as vapor, not as steady flame—

To wander endless in a formless name?”

Within that question, folded, tight and still,

Dwells all the weight of mortal human will.

To seek, to find, to lose, to be undone—

The ceaseless dance beneath the changing sun.

And yet, amid the silence vast and deep,

A whisper stirs the shores from tranquil sleep:

“The path you seek is neither clear nor lost,

But woven by the hands that bear the cost.”

What cost? The price of being truly known,

Yet faced alone, forevermore alone.

Each step measured on this dream-lit floor,

Where light and shadow in communion pour.

As noon ascends, the haze begins to part,

And with it swells the pulse of searching heart.

Not all is clear, nor dimness quite returned—

The more she sees, the less the soul has learned.

She turns her gaze upon the sky’s pale screen,

Where clouds drift like forgotten hopes between.

The arc of day, the curve of waning light,

Plot course uncharted through the fading night.

“Must I then walk this liminal expanse

Forever caught between desire and chance?

To hold no answer, nor relinquish quest,

But tread the cusp wherein the soul finds rest?”

A voice, half wind and half remembered song,

Sings not of ending, but of journey long.

No final clause to tie the strands that weave—

Only the hope that still we might believe.

The lake, once mirror, now a shifting glass,

Reflects her form as shadows gently pass.

In every change, a thousand lives appear—

Each one a faint and flickering chandelier.

So Âme stands, between the dusk and dawn,

A figure traced by half-forgotten song.

Her quest remains—no rest but sweet unrest—

To seek the light within the soul’s deep rest.

The mist returns, enfolding laurel bough,

And still the lake awaits some word or vow.

No final chapter seals the trembling breath—

Only the gentle cradle of near death.

Thus ends the tale upon the silent tide,

Where answers lie forever undefined.

Yet in the void, a fragile hope is cast—

That journey’s dawn will find its light at last.

And so she moves, a wraith upon the wave,

Neither lost nor wholly found—a soul to save.

In matin brumeux sur un lac endormi,

She walks the edge of what shall come, and be.