Gathered

Dear Evan

Forgive me in advance, because the poem traveling inside me has not yet reached my hand.
Why do the rules of appearance still live inside a body now consumed by dreams?
It's the city, surely it's the city. Escape is the only solution to be the subject of my painting.

When will my hand stop talking and start singing love songs? I want it, this is what I want. I want to be your day.

Please, do not misunderstand the words that my hands etch onto your body. It is not love, it is true love. It is love for what surrounds us. It is the love that dear old friend Pascoli wrote to the Little Child.

I do not love the physical appearance but the psychic one of your being.

I would like to ask you many things and pass with you all the trees that live within us.
Shyness. Yes, I think it is shyness, the fear of all those people around the corner. They stand there, staring at you. They stare at everything about you: how you dress, your movements. They even stare at the people you lose consciousness with on Saturdays, and those who chase a metal ball on Fridays, struck inside a box of lies.

The truth is that I cannot. I would like to, but I cannot.

Society, yes, I think it is society. Trained for twenty years to listen to the words of a fake painting. No true color has ever touched that canvas. All of them there, staring with their eyes instead of listening with the only true means that He has given us.

I have never listened, and maybe that's why I cannot talk about clouds, or about my neighbor's door.

I wish I could meet you, not by chance, but thanks to the invitation of one of your poems. I would like to talk with you about why butterflies have to live only for a week.

I do not know what I am now or what I have been, but I know what I will be.

I will be the art erupting from the highest tip of my head, flowing slowly down to my feet. I will merge with solid ground, which is not solid at all. I will be a tree that every year gives its fruits to the world. Fruits that design. Fruits that paint. Fruits that sculpt. Fruits that sing. Fruits that write. Fruits that dance. Fruits that capture the reality of a filmmaker. Thank you for being Canudo.

You and I, one day, will be the Infinite Tree.