6.2.13
5.2.13
Lita Cabellut. She is something.
The most beloved thing that I have I paint.
You
I paint you on the edges of sharpened knives.
In the trapeze swings
where balance is a duel
between death and bravery.
In the theaters
where they applaud with the soles of their feet,
our hands are tied
to the back of the chair.
We don't reach what we see
we don't touch what we desire,
possessively
I paint you
with your mouth shut tight
and your nose wide like a bull
breathing bravery
and holding in tenderness
a shout that scares the brightness of the colors.
Sometimes I paint you
with pain of anguish
and without forgiving
I leave you
with the indigos and violets
I close the door
I go out
searching for another color
I return
in the same
with the contrast
between
death
and you,
You
I paint you on the edges of sharpened knives.
In the trapeze swings
where balance is a duel
between death and bravery.
In the theaters
where they applaud with the soles of their feet,
our hands are tied
to the back of the chair.
We don't reach what we see
we don't touch what we desire,
possessively
I paint you
with your mouth shut tight
and your nose wide like a bull
breathing bravery
and holding in tenderness
a shout that scares the brightness of the colors.
Sometimes I paint you
with pain of anguish
and without forgiving
I leave you
with the indigos and violets
I close the door
I go out
searching for another color
I return
in the same
with the contrast
between
death
and you,
my life
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)