The Allure of Hidden Watercolor
A river steps into numbness. A bird flies away, leaving behind the color of its wet plumage. Yet, the water defies all equations. The sin of waiting—inherent to this river crafted of imagery—brushes against the shores of this imbalance. A faint wail of the wind permeates its entire being.
For ages, I have slept in hunger, having shattered that watercolor of endless days and nights. I have kept the river’s clear articulation blurred in the distance. At the confluence of stars, I have laid out the poison of the self. Simply put, no human shadow shall fall upon this scene now.
The exchange of glances in the late afternoon has grown heavy within the reflection. We would surely be annoyed if the remaining waters were to be voiced again.
Paleochannel
A bend appears just before the throat of the landscape turns blue. They say this is the cry of water, echoing the same note across incarnations. Measuring the path, it walks alone, bearing a hunger that spans light-years. Beyond the visible scene, it wanders in madness on erroneous bridges during lonely nights. Its return home remains pending, weighed down by many unquenched debts.
Yet, within the sky of the body, an illness awaits. The yearning for a touch—dampened by the dream-sharpness of an infinite focal point—is drifting away. Where is it going? In this incarnation devoid of lies, amidst the blindness of your light, its wounded pride is becoming a stranger.
The river keeps slipping away from the dawn’s kiss of memory. Slowly, the exchange of questions regarding the blind vessel of sustenance is being forbidden.
