No,it is not born from my own obstinacy
this vision of the artist
or from any obsesiveness regarding
auras of light and brushstrokes over a background
of music soaring towards stars
beyond times in exhibition, and perhaps proof of sea
where the longings of previous muses
reached nothing but vague canvases of sky…
Consider the wind, and listen to its reflection
sprinkled with open smiles
when you think of embraces expanding colours
in flights that a running quill writes as streams
or soft dreams
sweetly cooing and then, suddenly, releasing screams
of a dawn that has already flowed into the waves
and is liberated upon the paradoxical shore of bodies
that have merged…
Can you perceive, now
how you surge, fantastic, and yet outlined, so limpid
in the tangible imagery of my drawings
that your fingertips mirror in the smoothness
of perfect contours
a mere instant away from becoming
a poem on the lips?
It is not even because I love you
in a surrealistic transposition of senses and tints
or daylight moons overflowing easels
that were planted above clouds and now rain
arabesques of ripe night
for the thirst of many suns…
It could be rather because I love you
quite simply, in the light of your art
so obstinate in composing perceptive auras
further beyond and far more intimately seeded
than within my own upon your limpid
eyes…
