The House Of Frida Kahlo Poem by Alexandro Johns

In the Frida's house the sadness doesn't exist
there is a quiet joy in the garden
because her pains are gone
like crazy passion of a saint earthly.

Released and imprisoned by her body
Frida paints and bites to life
what it touches gleams as the sex of light
of a queen Midas generous and gallant
that never gives up.

I walk the place
hardly remember the spherical Rivera
that now turns around Frida.
She is the butterfly or the crucible flower
crashed in lovers and tragedies
and it survives to look us face to face.