Three sisters, plus one, estranged, undiscovered.
An arc of dreams and shadows, nightmares and rainbows.
The flat hand swinging, a kind of hope that is ringing.
Page after page, losing and regaining colour.
The alteration of voices, meaning well and torturous.
The sound of memory, invoking the taste of dripping things, leaking.
The smile on her cheek, expanding toward the ears.
The smell of his hands, clouded in dust.
The coffee they all know how to prepare.
The kisses on my hair.
The brothers on my chair.
The singing voice, the comical affect.
The mud and the stars facing the grounded balcony.
The fears running up the yellow staircase.
The garden of surprises and family feasts.
The loudness of the male voice.
The female cooking hand grasping the wine glass.
The room of lights and smoke.
The wooden horses running, accursed.
The moulding hands, the knife misguided, unaccomplished happiness.
The child in the bright dress.
The kicking girl, the stomping teller of truth.
And the frozen thorns and skeleton bushes.
The grinning death, the saviour woman, blood on her body.
A policy of no regrets.
The relighting of her inner fire and people keep blowing and blowing.
The submission continues, the inner revolt and keeping track of her path.
Within her tears she always recuperates her smile.
“Die Dame mit dem Schleier” by Alexander Roslin (1718-1793)