Prisoner of himself
in perennial search
of its sun
confused
tumult of souls
as moved by a storm
not even the horse his friend
relieves him
and all around
desert land
drops fall
slowlier
into the large barrel
while the earth shakes
and the blood
boils in the veins
in the mind explodes
the genius
as a punch in the stomach
and the constant noise
of doors
that don’t want to open
the brush runs on canvas
with definite strokes
spring is exploding
in the apotheosis of color
that shouts to the world
its anguish
its love
