I was invited to a painting class. I confessed I only know how to paint with words, so they placed four images before me. This is the third I tried of my drawing:
Anemones, anemones,
red, rising in the heart of fire,
while the sky spills silver rain
that hums, that falls, that trembles.
They do not shrink,
they do not bend.
They reach, they stretch,
they quiver toward eternity,
petals like molten embers,
roots drinking blue as liquid time,
as if the pulse of the world itself
were flowing through their veins.
The fire kisses,
the rain drifts and drapes,
yet they remain,
untamed, unbroken,
a rhythm older than wind,
a pulse older than shadow.
Anemones, anemones,
a song of resilience,
an echo of immortal colour,
the blood of the brave
that will not be consumed,
that rises, rises, rises
in every heart
where courage finds its root.
