Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Mirror symbolism

  • Between Dust And Mirrors

    Between Dust And Mirrors

    Between dust and mirrors
    I carried silent letters,
    wrapped in paper made of mist and waiting,
    not filled with confidence—
    but with enchantments.

    I did not know, yet I knew.
    The Sun had greeted me,
    upright, high—
    as in those cards that never lie.

    And I walked,
    through the lower kingdom of the nameless city,
    through the fractures of reality
    none of my sages could explain:
    a black swamp,
    where humanoid larvae and shrieking wraiths
    bared their shadowy teeth
    and brandished blades in the rancid air.

    All was corrupted.
    All was decay.
    Creatures of the underworld
    called me bright star,
    tried to seize me,
    to drain the last whole word from my lips.

    But I walked still,
    even with the Chariot reversed,
    even as the Hanged Man spoke from his unseen cross,
    even as the Moon, askew,
    laughed behind her veil of deception.

    I walked on,
    I proceeded with endurance
    carrying my letters of destiny
    and a name no one can pronounce.
    Unknown among the ruins of grandeur,
    a pilgrim between topaz and filth.

    And then I saw it.
    On the horizon, beyond the bridge of centuries,
    stood an enchanted castle.
    My cherished palace.
    Towers gleaming like guarded dreams,
    mirrored waters whispering of other realms.
    And there, behind an eternal glass veil,
    sat my holy icon,
    keeper of the visions and silence.
    A beacon for those who have lost their path
    but not the flame.

    However, atop those gilded peaks,
    behind windows lit by empty feasts and fools’ champagne,
    The puppets of excess laughed,
    tripping over their own void.
    There, power wears the mask of the jester.

    Nonetheless, between dust and mirrors,
    I carried sorcery and spells.
    Broken enchantments,
    witchcraft writhing in blood-stained claws,
    arcane revelations seeping from the soil like forgotten rites;

    Tarot glyphs ignite beneath cursed fangs,
    a pact inked in shadows and old essence.
    A thread of fate winds unseen,
    binding my name to the arcane roots.

    Thus I crossed
    the border between realms that do not convey,
    with a sharpened awareness
    of one who can no longer close the eyes—
    not even to dream enchanted chimearas.
    Elisabetta

  • The Mirror Of Memories And Secrets

    The Mirror Of Memories And Secrets

    The mirror of memories and secrets appeared before me, in one of my many dreams that wandered through my long, sleepless and tormented nights. In the darkness of night, in my chamber of solitude and desolation.

    My nocturnal refuge had become my prison,
    from which I could no longer escape. The tall windows, adorned with Gothic ornament and stained glass depicting scenes from a bygone age, stood like walls of glass between me and the outer world—a world I could no longer touch, no longer reach.

    The ancient piano gazed at me in astonishment as I sat absorbed in my thoughts, completely lost in the labyrinth of my visions. I could no longer recognise my own reflection in that great mirror of exquisite and delicate craftsmanship—yet its reflection seemed cast beneath a spell, the origin of which I could not fathom.

    Dressed in a majestic, cumbersome gown of purest white, I could no longer see my reflection in that mirror. It was as though it longed to reveal to me my true image—not the one to which I had grown accustomed. Silence carved deep furrows in my heart, making me understand that utter solitude was my destiny and my dwelling place.

    Engaging in a soliloquy, I hoped to summon spirits that might assist me in my transformation—into a new, intangible entity, ethereal, no longer made of matter. So I searched, with my gaze, for references, for remnants of the past that might help me find direction, but in the end I understood: I stood within a dark and unfamiliar realm, a place that filled me with fear and awe.

    If I had been granted the privilege of a common and ordinary existence—the kind that most mortals, or nearly all, are given with ease—with all its hopes, its chances, and the facilitations that I have never known, perhaps I would not have found myself in that realm of unwholesome madness and aberrant hallucinations that followed me through the shadowed corridors of that castle of illusions and decay, whose walls were soaked in tears, piercing sighs, and the dust of lives long gone.

    The mirror of memories and secrets in truth, was not there to keep me company, but to reveal to me my true essence—my soul, and the image of my heart, defaced and torn apart by pain, torment, disappointment, and betrayal. It was no ordinary mirror; it was a portal to another realm—the world of souls lost in oblivion and in the torpor of death. A world that seemed a deep, infinite abyss, where despair and sorrow, regret and the memory of the dead shone like stars—but stars of a darkened light.

    And in that very world I remained—no longer a prisoner, but a part of that abyss, of that darkness and dimmed light, for my heart had not ceased to beat, yet my soul had ceased to shine.
    Elisabetta

  • The Mirror Of Astral Woe

    The Mirror Of Astral Woe

    In the mirror of astral woe,
    Reflections of the soul did show.
    Not faces, but the shadows of thoughts,
    Woven into a cosmic knot.

    Each glance revealed a spectral tale,
    Of existence where truths turned frail.
    The mirror’s surface, a gateway to fears,
    Where the self was lost in forgotten years.

    Through its glass, the void stared,
    Revealing the soul’s deepest despair.
    Each reflection was a whisper of the infinite,
    A gaze into the abyss, where darkness split.

    The mirror reflected not what was seen,
    But the essence of what might have been.
    In its depths, the astral realm’s sorrow grew,
    A mirror to the soul’s darkest view.

    In the shadowy realms it held,
    Unspoken dreams and fears rebelled.
    Each fleeting vision, a ghostly parade,
    Of regrets and desires that never faded.

    Through the silken haze of the mirror’s sheen,
    Spectres of what was, what might have been,
    Danced in the void, where shadows spun,
    A spectral waltz, where past and future ran.

    The mirror’s surface shimmered with cosmic light,
    Reflecting the pain of eternal nights.
    In its glass, the truth lay bare,
    A portrait of despair woven with care.

    Lost souls wandered in its depths,
    Seeking solace in forgotten dreams.
    The mirror of astral woe, an oracle of desires unfulfilled,
    Showed the fractured longings, forever stilled.

    Each glance through its surface revealed,
    A truth too hostile to be concealed.
    The mirror, a portal to endless regret,
    Held the sighs of desires unmet.

    In its heart, the astral woe persisted,
    A reflection of the soul’s dreams, twisted.
    Each vision was a lamentation’s cry,
    A whisper of the self, destined to die.

    The mirror’s glance, both cold and cynical,
    Showed reflections both dark and whimsical.
    In its depths, where illusions lay,
    Reflected the tears that never dried.

    The mirror of astral woe, an endless scroll,
    Revealed the fragments of fractured dreams.
    In its depths, where every glimmer faded,
    The mirror revealed secrets never laid.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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