ATāRI

An arrow strikes me, my heārt is bleeding, I touch an artifact that was long gone.
The time is before times, and the whispers of the wind pounding the story of my brushstrokes
I pick a tear drop from the skies and bury it deep inside mother earth’s crying eyes which moisten the arid lands
somewhere between no-where and nowhere.

I dive deep into the golden sand thru earth's core and back
to the exact meeting point of a canvas and “don pannalo” my brush,
I am transmuting myself to become a clear rock
that is breaking the light of the sun into spetecular rainbows of art.
I am a heārtist, a wondering soul, I came to that present, to become a wholje.