By David Martinez Romero
The soul of an artist
Gently silence falls as white bird
eating holes in the clouds, where broken glitter beams cross
needles in ice flowing, slow death of magma
yesterday on our hands clasped,
now lost underground.
Because the dust has eaten the paintings in the library:
those books, on which dreaming we once promised
immense love and pleasure and caresses,
have been lost, such as dust, as white bird that rises.
Pages and pages of gray images, fragmentary,
I remember the futility of all the roses and I know
that beauty dies
that woman is beautiful and her beauty shines,
the time ineluctable push intensifies
and a wave comes and goes like foam.
Slowly, from a tear
magnificent the whole philosophy springs,
all the knowledge of the truth, the night, the sugar,
all that is worthy of being known or kissed,
glazed moons with lids wide open
as if an albino animal had crossed the room at the speed of a smile:
perhaps an angel ...
perhaps the soul of an artist.
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Q & A:
- How did you start the film crew with Eldorado Entertainment?
- A foreign country you'd like to visit, and why there?
- A favorite quote of yours - something you said or something someone else said.
- Why do you write?
- Name a must-see place in Spain. (I understand this could be tricky, so I'll accept a top 3)
Zahara de los Atunes (a little town in Cadiz)
La Judería, Córdoba