Letter from a painter to his dead wife "No way, Elisa, this can not be. How was I to know that those would be your last words? It's terrible ... dead, dead, you're gone, beloved, I've lost you forever ... there was no time for goodbyes, hugs and for last, even to a sigh that we remain in the memory ... you left alone, Elisa; tiny orphan on the path of the shadows, leaving your body wilted wild flower, and without form, so cold and rigid as death.
silence Your eyes are looking now dark face, without fear, without fear or acceptance, without feelings. The weariness of the days is nothing to who is more than grains of sand ferrous and constant moving clock. Your heart be held in the abstraction of the end, waiting forever for new companies that evil silent wind was lavish. Your laughter will not ring in a vacuum: no one hears.
Could you detail, soul beloved, how is the face feared? Could he, in your corner of silence, describe him, revealing every detail, every puzzle, every piece dark and hopeless? Will you tell me what color it is, how we look, if his breath smells musty old flowers or pools? But better wait ... Do not tell me anything yet, your death is early, and do not know what to think. It was so sudden the news, I have not had time to miss. I have not yet felt lonely, because I still waiting for your return, another chance to see you happy, rejuvenated, given birth a second time, saying, sighs and smiles, that you missed your last tantrum, you discovered how stupid it is to discuss , and mourn and be sad, because we can begin again, a thousand times, each time we fall, when we feel old, when pain and fear overwhelm us open deep wounds in our bare breasts and, after giving me a some of your newfound freshness, you will sit beside me in silence, looking at me with the passion of our early days, staying with me, faithful and sincere, looking at my silly creations, breathing the same air that sustains me, taking my hand in yours, between your fingers soft, warm with your warm throb, with your soft touch, your tenderness sacrificing mother, looking with your eyes beautiful, too green, Elisa, too human, expressing what your lips are silent, showing the truths of your faint feeling isolated, giving me another chance to listen ...
I have not had time to miss you, Elisa, companion of my life, since you are the echoes of your fight as a child, the prize of your kisses, the reluctance of your apathy. I have not yet had the opportunity to discover that my works were for humanity, or to create wonderful and intimate universe of my exclusive property, which could feel like a god smith with your color palette in hand, with his brushes dilated receptive to his canvases, with the ability to mix tones which require a taste of nostalgia, melancholy, grandeur ... no, Elisa, I still find that did not look for glory, nor to seek the peace between puzzles signs or to find a reason to justify my life, nay, infinite woman companion of setbacks, now that you wind, the breath of eternal skeleton reached your energy, your hands withered mowed your smile, your breath blew out the flame misunderstood your be, I understand that I always painted for you, my love to you, but do not understand my enthusiasm for foolish things, for you, my queen, for giving me those seconds where reposaste the green of your eyes on this sea green I painted in a fit of loneliness for you, beloved, just for you, which feared not accept that my work was strange, disjointed, mysterious, and as you saw them, and so I sensed myself in the embers of your heart because, in the routine of the day, I also painted for you, lest you get bored of seeing the same ol ', lest you get tired of my single, monotonous tone, and tried to beautify I spent yesterday with purple skin, now with emerald, crimson morning ... but, what a morning, Elisa, what a morning ... there's no tomorrow, you're dead, I'm old, the time in on our curbs, and corroded with deaf aridity. I continue here, stunned, compared to the same table that bore you to death, compared to the torment I do not know how to finish in front of this bad image that will eventually consume me, while I agree that we finished the morning. There is another opportunity: the sun went out for you, Elisa, and shining in my sky is so violent that embraces the latest flowers in my weary soul, and leaves behind only deserted infernal lava fields, made of dust sighs and anguish ...
A brief hand stole your glorious spark, using some perverse reason banal. Then I find out why my love, when the bodies of research, I provide their vague explanations, but for now, just know that you're not, that you're gone forever, and I am alone, helpless and withered in the rubble what was our life. I will be the memories, my heaven, but they also grow old and eventually die of exhaustion. Then and only then, your loneliness and mine are the same thing, a single body and gray clothe us to eternity.
Tomorrow I'll be buried. You walked away, hidden by mud and a breath of silence, a bit more than they are now, apart from the world for the hopeless and sorrowful abyss of death. But we will meet again my dear, again, one last time, and then have the opportunity to tell your secret, whispered in his ear what color is my dark lady, how we look, and if your breath smells like old flowers or musty backwaters ... you teach me how flashpoints are your eyes, how gently lulls her song, how much pain we cause the ice from his embrace ...".
