fire in the heart
On the tiptoes, slyly, without looking back but just scrolling down,
we’re going forward through one diaphanous steam.
The breath, the eyelids, are wrapped up like at the beginning
of the world without having burdens, without nothing, but just
moving ahead, guided by the purity of light in pictures of any day.
The paintings are shaped with sounds. The brush
seems more that’s comforting us rather than giving us colors…
by playing so tenderly with us, with a thin fog, with steam,
with a black and white, where time doesn’t exist
in the morning galaxy, but just a 6 am & do it again, instrumented
with the fire in the heart in an equitable tint of the transparency.
On the tiptoes, slyly, to not shaking life, we look to find ourselves
for not wasting a classy love under a deep feeling that unfolds
without being rather than be, in waiting for falling stars,
for making happen, for taking a fragment, which even if is there,
it’s perfect for being held, and to look almost like a happy time
that was and with another one what’s to come… furthermore…
That brush is named love… a majestic brush kind that comes
to bring us light, to remove the shadows, and to teach us about us
and about the mastery of love, letting us understand its colors…
colors… on tiptoes, slyly, moving us forward, to not break anything
from what it was not, but it will be about this faultless love of us…
