It burns,
a pen when it writes the unexpected.
When it discovers that which is hidden.
When you don't turn your back on it,
art is not a pose
but resistance against the hand that drowns you.
It burns,
the cockpit of the plane when it takes off,
the power of the eternal inside the everyday.
A jug of water and lemon.
A kiss next to a jasmine.
Happiness is a moment of distraction
while the hand over the fire... burns.