The Reflection in the Veiled Mirror
In the dimness of a forgotten chamber,
upon a shelf of ebony, it rested there:
an oval mirror, framed in ancient silver,
whose misted glass concealed an old enigma.
Beside it, like sentinels of a funeral rite,
stood candles glowing with a dim and mournful light.
To the left, a bouquet of dried and withered flowers,
silent witnesses to sorrow haunting these hours.
At the center of the glass, a shadow seemed to rise,
a vague silhouette belonging to a distant time.
A darkened bust, without a face or form,
like a frozen sigh that disturbs the calm.
The candles cast their trembling, wavering glow,
and the reflection shuddered like a wandering ghost.
It appeared blurred, spectral, and silent,
an echo of someone who was no longer present.
Who was that soul imprisoned within the glass?
A lost love, a condemned spirit from the past?
Perhaps a secret, or a deep and hidden fear,
dwelling at the edges of another world so near.
The mirror was a threshold, a half-open door,
to a realm of shadows where restless souls still roam.
And the veiled bust, standing at the center,
was the guardian of all that had been forgotten.
Within that chamber, the air was thick and still,
heavy with longing and a strange, mystical chill.
And in the oval mirror, the shadow waited there,
while candlelight slowly faded into the air.
Leaving behind, within the eternal night,
the mystery of the reflectionβand a tender melancholy.
