on the white wall
like on a square canvas,
matisse's birds
painted with children's hands.
a field of sunflowers
like sunbeams crucified
on earth.
A bridge over a river
love the bubbly sound
of the water, crashing into the
stones.
Sitting on its margins
spend time in its waters
no return.
In my veins I look for the tip
of the thread of the river of blood
that in circles runs through my body.
I write like a blind man, caressing
the lines on the bare page
I cover their nakedness with words.
In the window the silent glass
He watches me and reflects me.
Outside, in another universe, the garden
blooms of birds and butterflies,
the wind makes the leaves sway
greens in a winter melody.
On the white wall, the birds
de Matisse freeze to death.