by Beatriz Martinelli
An iluminated shore, the golden sun like a Vincent canvas
Like him, the madness, the exaltation, the painting.
The greens of the forest are holding blues and yellows.
The sand, a land-toasted-sienne colour, almost white.
That river, that huge murmuring river, an indian and shadowy
The sky, a medium gray with cyan and almost quartz white.
The soul, the soul waiting for your hand
Paint it please
Do not delay the delivery.
The heart, vermillion, strange as it may be.
The blood of cadmium, the medium coloured spike, violet the
with magenta and sea like blue, strongly.
What else are you asking for, painter, a palette,
colours, your easel.
Let me walk with you, let me help you,
May your fate be changed,
Do not die, painter, I have not learnt yet, I need your
your madnesses, your loneliness and nonsenses.
Let me be the model for your nudes, peasant of your fields,
little girl for your flatteries.
Let me be wheat, lily,
Tree, windmill, crow, storm, sunflower and hayfields.
Give me your path, painter, give me the colour, the shine,
That light that blinded your martyrdom.
Beatriz Martinelli, 1998
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