To be there is to steal the beats of beautiful women's drums and find nowhere to play it.
To be there is to watch the sea lick the dimming sun to a sad finish.
To be there is to stand in the worn out shoes
Of dead men and cry the end of their lives.
Drumbeats, stronger than heartbeats, run into our ears and find their way to our feet.
I have seen the reflection of my smile on strange faces.
I have dipped my wrinkly fingers in greasy laughter and brought them to my lips.
This is art,
The bumps we admire on men who have sculpted their bodies with iron
This is art;
The frozen jaws staring at frozen bodies of men with white and fruity faces,
It is no surprise that we lose a part of ourselves in their orange pots.
It is no surprise that at that time our cares come to a standstill and are frozen with them.
This is art;
To squander time contemplating the meaning of a queer painting.
Oh, the epiphany!
Perhaps, like our souls, this black nothing searches
For meaning on the tongues of strangers who know nothing.
Perhaps it is without meaning.
To say it has no meaning is to call it the paint with no meaning.
And that is giving it meaning.
To be there is to see colors telling stories of brave men on abandoned walls
They say brave men stare serpents in the face
To check what colors their eyes change into when they are filled with evil thoughts.
They say braver women hang serpents as gold chains around their necks.
We are cowards.
Today we are running away from demons we will have to fight.
To be there is to paint your cheeks with butterflies hoping that youth will fly to your side.
To be there is the art;
The art of looking into the mirrors of your spirit
And finding that you too are a work of art,
That you too are beautiful.
To be there is to say "I was there".
I was there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem