the painter

He was sitting at the park in a summer afternoon. He was a blind painter whose brushes ran over a canvas like ballerina shoes looking for a corner on the stage.

He couldn´t see the moves of his brushes but he could hear the sound of the tints, hues and shades swirling, interlacing their distorted edges, like lovers among sheets.

Night was coming.   There was no one to guide him home. The queens-of-the night were spreading over the grass, by his feet.   He decided to stay there, led to be seduced by the smell of the petals standing out in the dim light of the park.


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