Scotta [English translation]

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.