A wheel in pure steel syntax.
A mountain that strips away the fog of impressionism.
Overlooking the grey of the last handrail.
Modern painters, in the white studio,
cut sterile flowers from the square roots.
The marble icebergs in the water of the Seine
cooled the windows and dispersed the ivy.
The man stomped hard on the tiled street.
The crystal evaded the magic of reflection.
The government has closed perfume shops.
The machine turns its double beat into eternity.
The absence of forests, screens and eyebrows roams the
ancient roofs.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a giant water channel.
The sailors who did not know the wind and the shadow
behead the siren in the lead sea.
Night god, a black cautious statue,
holding a round mirror of the moon.
The desire for form and limit conquered us.
The man who came was looking at things with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life painting
and the butterfly collectors all escaped.
Cadagas, at the intersection of the water and the peak,
raised the stone steps to hide the snail.
The wooden flute calms the air.
The old forest god handed the boys fruit.
His fishermen slept dreamlessly on the beach.
The rose on the turbulent sea is their compass.
The virgin horizon of the wounded handkerchief,
the huge glass connecting the fish and the moon.
The hard crown of the white brig
encircled the bitter forehead and sandy hair.
The sirens persuaded and did not tempt,
they would appear if we took out a can of fresh water.
Ah, Salvador Dali, olive voice!
I do not praise your imperfect youth brushstrokes
or your colors, it chases the colors of your age.
But I praise your desire for finite eternity.
Clean soul, you live on the new marble.
You escaped the dark forest of incredible form.
Wherever your hand goes, your imagination goes, and
you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.
In the prospect of human patronage, the
world is silently dark and chaotic.
But the stars hide the landscape and point
out the perfect pattern of their orbits.
The flow of time almost ceased, forming
a digital form from one century to another.
The conquered Reaper shivered and
hid in the narrow loop of this minute.
When you pick up the palette, there is a bullet mark on one of the wings, and
you call to awaken the light of the olive tree crown.
Minerva's broad light, the female architect of scaffolding,
there are neither dreams nor inaccurate flowers.
You ask the ancient light that stays on your forehead,
not to run down to people's mouths and hearts.
Bacchus's beloved grapes
and the disorderly force that brings crooked water are afraid of this light.
You are doing well, put the warning flag
on the black border that illuminates the night.
As a painter, you don't want form to soften
the changeable cotton of unpredictable clouds for you .
The fish in the tank and the bird in the cage.
You don't want to invent them from the sea and wind.
After seeing their agile bodies with honest pupils,
trace them and give them a unique style.
You love clear and accurate materials
where mushrooms cannot be set up.
You love the buildings you build in your absence and
treat the flags as ordinary jokes.
Steel's beat recites his own flexible short poems.
The spherical surface negates the unknown island.
Straight line speaks of his vertical efforts, and the
wise crystal sings its geometry.
But the same goes for the roses in the garden where you live!
Forever rose, forever, our north and south!
Calm and engrossed like a blind statue,
ignorant of the underground forces that he caused.
The pure rose washes away the plumes and thick marks,
opening the delicate wings of a smile for us.
(The pinned butterfly wants to spread its wings) A
balanced rose, without any troubles.
Forever rose!
Ah, Salvador Dali, olive voice!
What I'm talking about is what your people and your paintings said to me.
I do not praise your imperfect youth brushstrokes,
but sing the firm direction of your arrows.
I sing the beautiful power of your Catalan light,
your love for things with possible explanations.
I sing your big and soft heart,
like a French playing card, and never hurt.
I sing about your never-ending desire for sculpture,
and your fear of the emotions waiting for you on the road.
I sing the little siren
who sings for you in the sea. She rides a bicycle with coral and conch.
But first I have to sing that common thought
It connects us when it is dark or light.
The light that blinds us is not art.
But love, friendship and fencing.
It is not a painting you paint patiently,
but the chest of Teresa with insomnia,
the tight curly hair of Matilda, who
is portrayed of our friendship as a mother goose game.
Let the typing blood mark on the gold mark the
eternal heart of Catalonia.
When you paint and your life blooms,
let the fist-like stars without falcons illuminate you.
Don't look at the thin-winged hourglass,
or the metaphorical hard sickle.
Facing the sea full of ships and sailors,
you have to always put on and take off your clothes for your paintbrush in the air.
Salvador Dalí is
each other’s muse, each other’s god, is inspiration, is ashes, is doing bad things and can’t help but want to let others know, is an absolute tacit understanding, is a spiritual companion, is life or death, is a romance that exhausts the energy of the universe. Classical sophistry I am Dali, I love
Lorca ... Federico García Lorca
When you are by the sea, especially when you describe the creaking noises and small dust, please remember me. Oh my little dust! Please mark my name on the painting and let it be passed on forever.
I sing your grace with groaning words
I remember the sad wind in the olive groves
-dear Federico Garcia Lorca
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