A White Bird

A little bird gets off the ground toward the empty horizon

Hundreds of values, thousands of variations,

Only one mind, and a single brush.

Obscured wings that look like a light in the middle of darkness

Clear eyes that look like carbon placed on turquoise water

And the only seemingly moving thing

Is the will of a painter.

The Horizon was already drawn:

Was the sky going to be light blue?

Or would it be night-obscure?

The sky is inconceivable.

The bluish reality and the false light blue;

Both are inevitable.

What it is, is motionless on the author’s painting

And what it was, is the absence of each whited space.

A blank space is all the colors in the mind of a great painter.

The absence of a color is the will of an eternal flight;

Little wings of infinite colors, flying through the timeless gap.

All those who were never in a mind—

Little birds, living birds, and dead birds—,

Are a white canvas painted with multiple colors.

They are life, they are death, and the spirit of the painter.

A little white bird flows with the movement of a brush;

Its wings fly through what it is without being painted;

Through the time of an eternal vacuum