GIVING BIRTH TO BINOMIALS IN A CANVAS OF FAITH

 

She draws the doodle in the garden, which could be autobiographical, a rhetorical character, not to say me, saying it, which is to lend my skin to another whom I borrow as myself, as a heteronym, who may be, after all, the absolute antonym of what I am living. And I scratch the gardener, who is still you, with a hand full of seeds for the replanting of the flower nursery. That to live is to recreate love, to impregnate the womb of twins, on the condition of nourishing appendages, building or destroying or to make true what was not, to omit, add or subtract in creation about someone or some condition. I breathe on the window pane, the motto of my fog, on its smooth surface, using your name, which is to say, the name of all the things seized from you and after you. And it tastes like saltpeter and tame, and smells like tenderness and lavender. And instead of summer, I write January, that you came first to populate your chart. In the decomposed ocean, I paint the river of others, I rewrite, I now re-edit the story of Frost's unfolding, I hang on the road not taken. And when I do, I allow myself to recycle, then giving my place to another, in a new and pulsating world, of brushstrokes, sometimes slow, sometimes hurried, where the watercolor of before only knew the outline of your name, warm and home, now erases your name and rewrites the spring that has already passed and will come again, Overcoming and bridging the grasses, the new and evergreen broom, and always fresh, the anthills, the loose stones, the old gate where the paint gave way to the high temperatures, and the wood to the constant humidity, the path of the earth and the natural gravel of the uneven floor. Nature has its own hand and invades its habitats that man has borrowed from it and it is there, on this piece of the road, that faith is restored, diverse hues, intense textures, and, as long as I don't reach the elbow of the path, before the fork, I dare to visualize the rupture with the decadent to glimpse the new. When it's time to shout goodbye, I dare to whisper goodbye and hang the longing on the shoulder of the tree where everything was already done, the nest, the laughter, the bed, the love the way only you did. And by agreeing to break with the August limitation, I write the compound of what remains and what still makes any Monday pregnant. And the jargon of slaves was freed in the afternoon of my pains that will give birth to the old love already new. I lean against the natural staff of the old tree, witness to so many ancient decays, that self that has been fruitful and has become sterile in the weeds of life, and I sip the new air that smells of honeysuckles, poppies and marigolds. There, the brush breaks with the before and no longer stops. The inebriated aesthete paints, in an internal dialect, with the landscape he portrays. And he offers me the refreshing vision I was looking for, tinged with an immaculate and all-encompassing hope, which shapes the paths, which gives birth to his body immersed in the dyed waters of mid-July. The paths reveal themselves after the loss of fear, of the old and decrepit illusions that have been honed by all past selves and crystallized by disappointments. The audacity and daring to tread an entirely new path, after the storms had deceived me. And yesterday it was my hand that wrote your name, on the glass, on the resounding wick of the dew of my longing, and just now, the same hand that disappeared with it, and that now created new names to say that love paved the way, that what was your name gave way to a fertile ground,  and that even now it was yesterday, and yesterday it was done today, because yesterday was the sad melody, clothed in perilous anguish, who fed on shadows woven by your name, in the shadow of all the ghosts that accompany me, that today, which is the same as saying now, with the stubble of the corpse and the remains of your name I drew wings for a bird, which is still you, but without a word, has been freed and now experiences new flights,  new ways of saying love, of showing it illustrated in the midst of poppies that are not domesticated. Neither did the bird grow fetters, nor cages, nor rules, nor ornaments. Neither politically correct nor obsolete institutions. The steep slope is vanquished, the complaining of before has built chords in the trill of that nameless bird made of you. Only yesterday you were in heaven and the firmament where the stars combed their hair, only yesterday, only yesterday. And your name, which has always been a name full of so much that is left unsaid, has become a stream and a fountain, a river, a road and a hill, and has contributed to a to a screen where nothing was distinguishable. Amalgam of what you were and what you would be. And you would be and will be the bird that nested in my hair, that made a ball of them to hide my breasts, that was fertilized in it in a mother's womb and today, the old canvas is only a memory, that faith took hold of me and her, and in the brush transformed what was a cloud in the window where I no longer write your name,  where freedom is brought by birds in treble clefs amidst juicy wheat that someone will come to harvest to to nourish. And my old longings that became my usual tiredness, that the stubbornly deaf ears repeated your name, gathered to create some progressive chords, and at the top of the slope, the unfolding happens and nothing is done suddenly, that it is necessary manure, water and the pain that made us sick to be seed,  the elbow of the path points to the fork, with nothing to prevent it from materializing, The freedom of thought gave me back the boldness to look, the daring to walk and the choice when to get there. The shoes are old, the feet are new, the dreams are old, faith is what has regenerated them. And she takes off her shoes and walks into the screen.

I do not know if my cowardice recognized Frost's metaphors while Huxlian sediments were birthed in the darkness, but I do know that the musical instruments of the old orchestras have found servitude in the new functionality of telling the truth, of breaking away from what is guarded, of giving life to craters and volcanoes, of exposing hidden prayers, mixing well,  add enough water, A sharp there and a sharp sun from the windowpane, this woman gets rid of everything, in front of the canvas, leans her back against the yellow wall of the summer landscape, the pain that rises through her ribs from her kidneys, and supports her fertile womb with her hand that once wrote your name through the windows, as if the letters of your name opened ditches to her dreams, And poetry will be born right there, on the ground where your name was drawn by an old brush, and right there, under the pergola, scratch your elbow to the road and in front of it, here it is, the crossroads, the fork. The choice that will make the road in her life. The waters break, no bag contains them, the cries are a pure song of faith, of immersion in poetry, that the secret is not in the quantities, but in the quality of the ingredients. And after childbirth, in the corner of the canvas, where before she rewrote your name, now she writes winter and April and that name of yours was erased in the bifurcation of doubts and the amniotic flow, a profusion of a thousand waters, new creatures were born, a miniature sun, a good luck charm, a symphony without an author, in the new leaves of life,  She could rewrite your name, without having to limit it to the form, the vowels, the axioms, the temporal states of saying love or shouting longing. On the sheets was written tea in the late afternoon, and coffee on Sunday mornings. She drew a smile to the new reborn of your DNA, which is that your skin has been a seed and is the floor and shelter of the garden that did not know how to perish. In it, no desire to anticipate the future, but rather that childlike thirst to savor the phonemes life, sun, joy, childhood, sea, sky and now. A swing absent of verb tenses, limitations on antonyms and punctuation. And that which had been weariness was something else, not who had given me, not ever again, neither adjectives nor determinants, neither vowels nor imperatives, and instead of drawing a single path from the crossroads on that canvas, she carved a watermelon girl, quartered it, poured the seeds across the canvas, and in the sky where the window with your name was drawn before,  he chose to reconstruct himself to it, he painted himself to it, Outside the window, without fences and notwithstanding, neither obtuse nor minimalist consonants, and to finish that canvas, wings were drawn on it and learned to fly over the rough floors, revivalist destinations were offered, the limits were rescued for themselves and gave them a new form which is like saying that from your name, they were made clear in a castle,  added brown sugar, peppermint, in Moimenta castle, in afternoon tea, An orange with your aroma, and from the nostalgia made mountains and wind and even real people, the life that moves around the garden we once were, smooth and dark rocks, houses, subjects and recipes, empty vases of flowers, pansies and threw away the customs, the vices and the old ones that had taken root and drew shoals in the sea, green masses and smiles and a song within her was born and loomed in the apotheotic flight of freedom, works of flowers, carpets of lilies, tulips, begonias, hyacinths and weeping trees, dunes and elves, hermits and hermits and painted a grandmother Bina at the feet of the pansies, who breathed softly, onto the canvas, of this new path that love, this one that is you in the center of the canvas,  it's not a cage bird, neither vulture nor catwalk, nor death claws or abyss, nor wall shackles, nor celibate prisons, nor durability of deadlines, nor the simplest afternoon is hostage to love, because it is lined with longing inside, but on the outside, it is a flight in full freedom, without a passport, nor a citizen card, without nausea tablets and no antidepressants,  Love is synonymous with wings. Grandmother Bina reads the leaves of the parturient's tea, and tells her, daughter, that it is urgent that you believe in faith and love, because you are grandmother, that you are all that there is and all that is, which is the same as saying that of you, of what is left of the memory of your name, just like Huxley,  It reinvented a new world, rehabilitated belated temperance in renouncing the old and rebuilding a new love, dedicated to what is fruitful within me. And inside it, no more window will receive her hand, to write your name which is like saying all that has been and all that is, now that it is all that there is does not prescribe in the tomorrow drawn on the screen. And in the gardener's hands he drew hoses and drew himself to her, turning on the taps to the gardener and faded the paint so that they would not be searched for. The abstract painting was ready for the futuristic gallery. On the box, fragile was written, which was the subtle way of saying that, even if the world explodes, inside the canvas, the gardener and the parturient continue in a dialogue immune to time.