Tuesday, January 15, 2013

the painting

findings and forgotten heartbreaks amid sun drenched pages of art at the national library. blessed

If only my sun had shone at night.
I sleep - steeped in colours,
In a bed of paintings,
Your foot in my mouth
Presses me, tortures me.

I wake up in pain
Of a new day, with hope
Not yet painted,
Not yet daubed with paint.

I run up
To my dry brushes,
And I'm crucified like Jesus,
With nails pounded in the easel.

Am I finished?
Is my picture done?
Everything shiens, flows, runs.

Stop, one more daub,
Over there - black paint,
Here - red, blue, spread out,
Calmed me.

Can you hear me - my dead bed,
My dry grass,
My departed love,
My new come love,
Listen to me.

I move over your soul,
Over your belly -
I drink the calm of your years.

I swallowed your moon
The dream of your innocence,
To become your angel,
To watch you as before.

Marc Chagall

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