A paintbrush and girls: a verdant creation expressed in the longed for
language, dew on the tufts of grass.
A sheen on every face to accept the ***** of life
In a conscious coming of age in life’s embrace, he attempts to push the
buttons of time, knock on the door of
the house of emptiness welcoming the kinship of fear. A sweet dream,
he removes the shadows from the water,
in the wash basin
of a *******. The bite of dogs in the park. An eye, slicing him up into
images under the perch of dragonflies.
He gathers them in the foundations of his despair, then he tries to exile
them far away, and then he's left with a hint
of the scent of patriotism, on which the blood of the past is drying.
Traveling so he can return to live in his solitude:
There he is,
outside time, inside time.
There he is,
he has not returned: that's his image . . .