Whispers of the Lost Path "English Version"

Seasons of Lostness

In the evening, when the city lights fade and the noise rests in its bed, he sits on the edge of his silence, observing the emptiness like a stranger asking the streets about a homeland he's never known. In the decade of dreams in his life, nothing brightens his darkness but a cigarette slowly burning, melting away like his years, lost in the illusion of waiting.

He is the passerby without direction, marked by the fear of tomorrow, pursued by the shadows of the past, crucified on the walls of loneliness like a drowning man clinging to illusions of rescue. The city around him is sketched in charcoal, its buildings weary, its windows broken, and its sidewalks groaning under the feet of faceless passersby. Everyone moves on, everyone laughs, everyone dances to false tunes, and he alone leans against the wall of time, watching it slip through his fingers like a handful of sand mocking his trembling grip.

Love? He thought it was a star hanging from the ceiling of the night, but he discovered it was merely an optical illusion, a light that fades the closer he gets to it. How many times has he reached for warmth, only to realize he was grasping at a mirage? How many times did he think he'd found solace, only to wake up and find that what he held was nothing but burned paper? He paid the price, gave his soul, spent his life to buy, if only for a moment, a false sense of belonging. But each time, he returned to his room empty-handed, counting his losses as a gambler counts his last cards.

At night, when the noise settles, his bed turns into a raging sea, and his dreams into crashing waves. He closes his eyes, and faces he doesn’t remember chase him, voices whispering in unknown languages, and memories return like shards of a broken mirror, reflecting distorted images of a man he's never known. He tries to sleep, but sleep refuses him, as if insomnia has sworn to be his eternal companion.

The world around him is a grand stage, and the actors are masters of their roles. They laugh when they should cry, and swear by love while hiding daggers behind their backs. Everything is fake, even his reflection in the mirror now seems doubtful. He sees a face that isn’t his, eyes exhausted from chasing after things that were never meant for him. Even the air has become heavy, the sounds have merged, and his soul now resembles a city ravaged by war, with nothing left but rubble.

He is the child who grew up without finding a hug, the lover who knew love only through songs, the passerby who remains forgotten. He searches for a hand reaching out in the dark, for a whisper that says, "You’re not alone," but he knows the city is empty, the doors are closed, and everyone is busy with their senseless dances.

In the morning, he will wear another face, laugh as though his heart hasn’t been shattered a thousand times, move on as if the night didn’t steal his peace, and pretend that everything is fine. But he alone knows the night will return, and loneliness will wait for him at the doorstep, asking him, "Do you still think tomorrow will bring you anything other than emptiness?"

In a slender night with a sorrowful face,

His shadow dances on a void’s embrace.

Staring at life, he walks alone,

Like a sick bird with no flock to call home.

His silence has worn thin, his longing shattered,

Like a flower that withers before the winds had mattered.

He fears tomorrow, for all is a lie,

Like a dream that breaks before the sky.

He loved, but all hearts betrayed him,

Embraced illusions, lived in sin’s grim hymn.

He paid the price for fleeting peace,

Yet remained a slave to wars that never cease.

His city’s a prison, faces made of glass,

And the sun shines dressed in deceit’s mass.

He asks himself: "Do I truly exist,

Or am I just smoke, a dream in the mist?"

He speaks to his pillows each lonely night,

Like a ghost singing to the silence of plight.

He dreams, yet each dawn brings him pain,

Waking a stranger, broken again.

He walks a path where his shadow hangs,

As if life itself is a mirage that sways.

Who will see him? Who will care?

Who will open a door for his soul’s despair?

He asks alone: "Is there any way out?

And who sees me but those who pass about?

Is life but a circus of lies untold,

With false roles and laughter cold?"

The mirror of confusion in the paths of doubt

Is he strong, or fragile like the ashes of a leaf that fell among passersby? Is he a mountain that the winds cannot shake, or a matchstick trembling between the fingers of the wind? He believes himself to be steadfast, yet inside, he crumbles like cities that collapsed under the weight of earthquakes. He doesn't know whether he loves or hates himself, whether he sees in his features the likeness of a hero carved from light, or just another forgotten passerby lost among alleys and faces. Every morning, he gazes at his reflection in the mirror, asking it: "Am I truly you, or am I an intruder within myself?" But the glass doesn't answer; it only silently laughs, leaving him suspended in confusion.

He walks alone through the streets of the city, devouring the eyes around him with his gaze, wondering secretly: Do people see me with clarity, or through a fog? Do they whisper about me in my absence, or am I merely a fleeting shadow passing through them without leaving a trace? How he wishes he could read minds, travel between consciences, and catch the conversations hidden behind fake smiles. But he's powerless, like a bird flapping wings made of stone, and all that's left for him is to drown in his speculations, fighting battles with the ghosts his imagination conjures.

Success or failure? The peak or the abyss? Every step he takes towards the sun, the shadows stretch out and pull him back. He runs, he gasps, carving his path with his feet, but his final step is always erased before it touches the horizon. Is this his fate, written for him? Or a curse that has haunted him since his birth? He wants to reach the destination, to prove to himself that distances don't scare him, that the winding roads will one day lead him to a port, but the journey renews endlessly, as if he is walking in a circle drawn by the hand of destiny.

He is the dreamer of the day, the merchant of illusions, weaving cities in his mind, building islands that no foot has ever set upon, climbing mountains that maps never charted, soaring above cities that the earth never created. He dreams of a life that exceeds reality, of ambitions that the sky can barely contain, but in the end, he returns to find himself in the same corner, the same room, the same window, staring into nothingness.

He fears evil, but he fears himself more; he is afraid of darkness, but perhaps he is its hidden essence. He runs from anger, but it lives within him, like a beast lying in wait. Anger coils around him, flowing through his veins like a black serpent. He tries to break it, but it rises again; he attempts to extinguish it, but it slowly ignites like an ember in the wind. He resists... he resists... but deep down, he knows that something inside him is burning, waiting for the moment to explode.

And sometimes... the light of faith in his heart almost fades, a candle swaying in the storm, but suddenly... its flame bursts forth and roars like a tiger. Yes, he is a tiger! Or so he tells himself before he smiles cynically and returns to his long silence.

But how will all of this end? In ten years... where will he be? Will he still be lost among the same roads, or will he wear a new face and laugh in the face of his past as if it never existed? Will he be happy, at peace, in love, or will he remain a prisoner to the questions that carry no answers? And most importantly... will he continue to search for his place in this world, or will he eventually discover that there was never any place for him to begin with?

Am I strong, or fragile, like a bird

Caught in a storm, in a world absurd?

A mountain that breathes the sky with pride,

Or a shadow that vanishes with the wind's stride?

Did I love myself, or am I my foe,

Chasing my soul with a sword's cruel blow?

Am I close to the heart of my being,

Or a stranger lost, never seeing?

I see the world move, I see it stare,

But through my eyes, only shadows glare.

Do I hate them, or do they despise me?

Do they love my existence, or just let it be?

How I long to read the minds of men,

To see the secrets they hide within.

But I'm alone in a world of silence,

Wandering in sorrow, drowning in violence.

Success, failure, a path that's unclear,

Is this journey a beast I should fear?

I walk, I step, I go on for miles,

Yet with every stride, I lose my smiles.

Is this my path, is this my fate?

A destiny sealed, a twist of hate?

I long to reach the heights above,

But my chains pull me down, denying love.

A daydreamer, ruler of thoughts,

My kingdom is light, my empire’s wrought.

I build mountains, weave clouds in the sky,

In every dream, my song will fly.

But I fear the evil that surrounds,

And wonder if I’m the beast that prowls.

I run, yet anger chases close,

Burning inside, an unholy dose.

I try to break my chains, but still,

Anger binds me with an iron will.

Was I light, or was I fire?

Will I burn in hell, or rise higher?

Sometimes the flame of faith grows dim,

Lost in a long, dark night’s grim.

But suddenly it flares, fierce and bold,

Like a lion's roar, uncontrolled.

Yes! I am a tiger, my voice a growl,

My heart fights like a lion’s prowl!

But still, a question haunts my mind,

As if I live in hell, confined.

When will this madness come to an end?

Where will my steps lead, and bend?

Where will I be, ten years from now?

And when will my thirst be quenched somehow?

Will I find joy, or die in sorrow?

Does my existence matter, or will it borrow?

Was I truly a being, a dream, a spark?

Or has my dream vanished, lost in the dark?

Lost in a Whirlwind of Numbers and Illusions

He is lost… lost between reason and imagination, between wakefulness and dreams, between the tangled paths of thought like spider webs in an abandoned corner. He doesn't know what he wants, where he should be, or how to move forward, as though his feet were made to circle endlessly, a path without a beginning or an end, as if walking on an hourglass, where every time he reaches the bottom, life flips upside down and sends him back to square one. Only one number appears on the horizon like a mysterious lifeline: 1126000… he doesn’t know what it means, but he believes it holds the answer, like the key to doors of comfort he’s never found. It might be an amount of money he needs to escape, or the number of hours left before he understands his fate, or perhaps the minutes separating him from a moment he should never have missed… or maybe—how absurd this seems—it’s a phone number he’s waiting for a call from, though he doesn't know where it will come from or when it will ring. But he knows the truth. He knows he's lying to himself, knows that all his dreams built on numbers and illusions are nothing but tricks he convinces himself of, lies scattered like letters on the walls of his dreams, and false promises hidden beneath his pillow for him to dream about at night, because only in dreams do lies become truth, promises are kept, and losses vanish.

But for how long? How long will he remain trapped in this maze, unsure if it was built by his own hand or the whims of fate? Where will this whirlwind take him, pulling him under every time he tries to swim upwards? What’s next? Ten more years of confusion, running after a mirage that shatters beneath his feet? Will he ever become the man he dreams of being, or will he always be the boy who fears tomorrow and runs from today? Many questions crash in his mind like waves in a stormy sea, but the answer remains elusive… just like everything else in his life.

He’s lost... lost between reason and dream,

Between wakefulness and visions, where nothing’s as it seems,

In tangled paths of thought, like threads that weave,

As though his feet are bound in circles that never leave.

He doesn't know what he wants or where to go,

As time slips away in a whirlpool’s flow,

The clock ticks sharp, and the minutes crawl,

Stuck in a journey with no way to call.

One number gleams in the distant sky,

1126000, a hope that won’t die,

A sum he may need, or hours to pass,

Or a phone number, perhaps, that’s fading fast.

He doesn't know what it is, but he’s sure,

It holds the answer, like a secret pure,

Maybe a dream, maybe a lie to cling,

But he knows deep down, it’s all unraveling.

Lies built on hope, deceiving the heart,

False promises rise, then fall apart,

But for how long? Where will it end?

Will he keep chasing shadows 'round the bend?

Ten more years of confusion and chase,

Running after a dream lost in time and space,

Will he find peace, or will dreams remain?

Questions swirl, but the answers wane.

When will he choose the road to take?

Or will he wander on, unsure of his fate?

How long will he remain lost in the hours?

When will his chains break, and peace be his power?

-Ramez Alexan

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