As fragile as the light,
your feet walked over the wooden planks
along the hallway.
Barefoot,
you carried the sublime weight of empty hands
and, fearfully, you edged across the floor
like someone who doesn’t understand.
I, ruling beast in the front room,
knew nothing about the subtleties of colors.
I yelled metal formica nappa.
I made you cry (because you still cried).
Now, we are alone,
tied to voices that don’t know who we were.
It’s late.
Yet, I‘ve learned that God is a blue gouache,
between placid sky and billowing sea:
subtle suggestion of light
and
shadow.
Miguel Martins
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