In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained and cared for carefully without contamination. There was a painting there, painted with oil paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair. The artist spoke:
“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile. We are all oceans: formidable, hostile. We are all stormy weather: thunderous. We are all columns: supportive, calloused.
Entwined we will walk, down to and up to the sands, into elixirs made with salt; swelling our joyous hands.”
Men, women and children all strolled by, and let not one of them see the lows and highs of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and down the mined canvas. He felt no sand under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and complexion in his hands. He spoke:
“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff. We are not oceans: defenceless, mild. We are not stormy weather: soundless We are not columns: defective, defiled.
Like slaves, we sing on top of the wings of new-born Spring.
The ground we sowed and toiled, reaped dangers of fantasy untold. Soul-reaping bird-singers singing the siren song to us. But we must not fuss.
I bleed the colours of a deadly rose garden. Red, yellow, blue, green: colourless eyes remain unseen.”