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I am in love with my paintings |
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Artworks from the streams of my thoughts |
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For a moment I was paralyzed |
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By the colours so deep and living |
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The dimensions of truth was so far away |
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Because this was not so real |
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The work of my mind my hand and the brush was not carnal |
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Yet breathing when I touched the profiles of it's colours |
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Every picture became a sophistication of my dreams |
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An essence of artworks was created |
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Twelve years ago I made a sculpture |
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And covered her body with a blanket made in sweetest velvet |
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Her beauty could not be compared |
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To anything I have created or seen |
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But I could not give her life |
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My fantasy was greater than my faith |
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Suddenly she lifted her eyelids |
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And stepped of the pedestal on which I placed her |
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And so I took her hand and attached a ring to her finger |
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She kissed me slowly to sleep |
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I married her and we shared the time from past to present |
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And our thoughts went from reality to dream |
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My motives became part of time |
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Motives covered in sweetest velvet |
