Portraits

The sun rose this morning, when you arrived at the gates of my eyes. Give me shelter, free, and your chest to let out a sigh that was extended to the building in time horizon, the path of oblivion. The sun rose before dawn and you were gone, was gone. Smiling eyes, clenched fists, curled skin, thirst on the border of goodbye. Sitting by the sea, the artist outlined the figure of the lady of the evening. (Similarly see: Gunnar Peterson). The colors fiddling around and a shadow fell on the canvas where he spoke: - Why do you want, man, if the banishment of burial l have not come to ease your pain? The painter, without surprise, undaunted, replied: "You, lady of the night, you are the fullness that integrates my own memories, without you I lack substantive, I have no home, I need you.

- What shall I give noble knight but the impurities of the earth full of bugs? "I'll grains of honey that lies beneath the land of starch from the seed you bring me the seeds that create life. "If my skin is broken, and my bones smug, where do you grab to keep from falling into the morass of useless sacrifices? "If your skin is broken and your body, gnawed, discover, then, the secrets I have hidden your eyes. And will climb into it, and when the grooves are gone, wring the sun to illuminate your gut and your gut will tell me, finally, why you're gone. "The grooves of the road and opened their mouths and I dipped them, nothing left of me, man of the delusion, nothing but filthy climax. The painter smiled at the occurrence, a laugh came from the abyss, hastened his hand wrapped around the colors of the day I moved away to the width of the river and the top of the giant waves. "Go to your home, man, heard from bubbling water-back, hug your wife and let the souls cobbled their strongholds. The painter did not look up. And their hands were confused with the canvas, and this, with the gray sand of all time.

When the sun shone, the man lay breathless, no heat, no skin beside the maiden glowed dim, but bright. He looked sadly the remains of the painter, while repeating: "Not both, not both. Monica Maud. (From book I, sacrilegious) Santiago del Estero, Argentina.