Untitled

Two nude people are gazing.
The picture is on the orange wall in
A frame made of Mahogany wood,
One that smells of a burnished past.

They are discussing paintings.
Oil paintings they are. Colors are abrupt,
sudden and strong as the saddest nights,
Soothing and polite as promised whispers
Or whispered promises of colors, that have faded.

Art in its essential, is pure;
So they wish to be the same, nude.
Of Adam and Eve,
Of Prometheus; art is fire.

Pictures come and go.
They sit on wrought irons -
sophisticated, minimalist, sharp and nude, like them.
And here it is,
a face under a veil.
Dark black it is, tanned skin, eyes
speak of a thousand pain and a single humor,
or vice-versa.

Interpretation is an artist's pride,
deciphering is his patience.
So they are visibly restless.
Apparently immovable two souls
stand and try gazing what is under its veils.
Desperate, nine straight lines on their foreheads,
each.

In this artistic liberty,
they don't understand that
nudity collides with nudity in flesh
and what radiates is restraint.

They bring down the picture from the green wall
and one tears off the veil.
The other looks at the eyes. Still,
A thousand humor and a plural pain
or vice-versa.

While they tore it off in naked ambitions,
It dawned, even the skin is a pretense.

Hundred reflections of a broken mirror lay on ground,
in disbelief.


SoUmY@