Fabric, tape, starting again.
pencil, ink, and steal to the landscape.
and to the pleasure of finding again
the limbo of a time slipping away.
Book, cloud, this is my rest.
tree, fountain, everytime I awake.
being sleeping, camouflaging in the foam of a whim.
for complete innocence,
rambling in the boiler of the dream.
That days go by, they're a river.
now I want to feel, to walk.
now I want to paint, to feel
the color of that flower that will wither.
I paint, green places of desolated beauty,
I live the brief and its worth.
I drink, I hurry wastes of my life,
I pick myself up in the calmness of the truce that
the anaesthesia of memory gives me.
That days go by, they're a river.
now I want to feel, to walk.
now I want to paint, to feel
the fleeting summer that is leaving.
Pencil, ink, and to the pleasure of finding again.