LOVE POEMS FOR DIEGO RIVERA

Truth is, so great, that I wouldn't like to speak,

or sleep, or listen, or love.

To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood,

outside time and magic.

All this madness, if I asked it of you.

I ask you for violence.

You give me grace.

I'd like to paint you, but there are no colours.

Nothing compares to your hands.
Nothing like the green–gold of your eyes.
You are the mirror of the night,
the violent flash of lightning.
The hollow of your armpit is my shelter.
My fingers touch your blood,
all the paths of my nerves which are yours.

She who wears the color.
He who sees the color.
Since the year 1922.

Now in 1944,
The vectors continue in their original direction.
Nothing stops them.
Slowly. With great unease, but with certainty.
There is cellular arrangement. There is movement.
There is light.
All centres are the same.
We are the same as we were and as we will be.

Mirror of the night.
Your eyes green swords.
Waves between hands.
All of you
In a space full of sounds.

You were called AUXOCHROME —
I CHROMOPHORE.
The one who captures color;
the one who gives color.

You are all the combinations of numbers.

Morning breaks,
the friendly reds,
the big blues,
are full of leaves.

Noisy birds,
fingers, hair,
pigeon's nests.

Sweet xocolati
of ancient Mexico,
storm in the blood,
in through the mouth.

Omen, laughter,
sheer teeth,
needles of pearl.

I ask for it, I get it,
I sing, sang,
I sing from now on.
Magic — Love