In all but the empty cathedral, whose windows remain unlit,
villagers bustle with activity despite the twilight.
The pub to stay open all night, but for the children in the cottages
the day is past its climax.
Fathers wait for mothers to tuck the kids in to join
those who’ve lost the glint in their eyes on the streets
to smoke and stumble in their valley.
The mountains turn into waves in the corner of their eyes.
All the while, a penniless painter rests in the gummy leaves,
Inhaling the rancid alcohol in his breath, ignoring the tender ache
the wind to his left sets off periodically.
Convinced this breeze is also responsible for his watered eyes,
He gazes unblinkingly at the empty sky, the antipode of his white canvas,
An inky pool so untouched there are no ripples to entertain its monotony.
Silence pounds painfully in his ear, so unbearable he takes up his brush
And lets the dripping paint make contact with the sky
Like the first note of a lullaby.
All the light he cannot see, he smears onto the atmosphere.
Like broken eggs yolks, the stars stain the evening with their glow;
The galaxies gases and particles of stardust swirl as if geometry had given up
And faded into wonderful nonsense that cannot be named nor measured
But rather felt like the damp backdrop that had settled to dry.
The artist wonders if his newborn canopy will wake the children
whose mothers forgot to draw their blinds.
Despite the sweat, ink, and remnants of clouds left on his fingertips,
frustration claws its way up his esophagus.
The sparks are too bright, the colors cheap and chipping already.
Temper flaring, his weapon bludgeons the chaste sonata,
an angry black mark streaks upward;
The tumor roots and builds, squirming grotesquely
to reach and consume the plastic illusion.
Better.
Sabrina Parra Díaz 