• The night fall.
It is made an intrepid moon noise,
anvil.
Hardly glossed, in chuintement of stars,
a small flexible light opened.
With what good, in the reflections of the alleviated shutters,
to still seek the imaginary desires.
Of a neighbor interview, naked.
Time came from intoxication and the colors.
The fabric, painting, brushes,
and hands too.
Tomorrow,
when the light comes for the first time
to deliver contours and the shades,
the morning of the magicians will be there in front of you. Obvious.
Your lashes raised like harrows,
will fill up your glance of an infinite tracking
and an immense pleasure.
Claude Bresson |
Philosophy Article #41765 - Artist #2780
