by P.T.E19 Dec 2014
I paint black square to the red soil. At the foundation made of blocks, no one is telling about black and white photos. Blind wind blows through the black square. Carves rusty oil lamp to the window of the attic. Lifts the weight of gray timbers. The colours forms to negatives; photos sparkling from the stardust. No one is telling about iron stove; golden words written in green glass. Words which told us about mornings, which everyone has a new mercy.