WINTER

WINTER.

Here, as every evening remembering parts of my childhood.

Lived experiences of odors and flavors.

Those who today do not perceive.

I lost my childhood.

Today I set out to create a figure more, clay.

As always my muse by my side always by my side.

In my workshop, workshop creative ideas.

From my large window at the horizon the Pyrenees.

On this snowy winter season.

In the mountain snows.

Rethinking my ideas on this rainy afternoon.

Fina.

Leaving the rain softens the hard clay,

the way.

Here in my workshop of ideas and creativity.

Where is my muse inert my

Mornings afternoons and evenings.

Clay from clay collected,

the hard way of life.

Outline of a woman of extraordinary beauty,

hip thinness gooseneck

Emerald green eyes, brown hair

and skin as white as flour grinding at the mill

grains of wheat.

As the Pan

You love.

The daily bread which

I shape and bake in the oven

every day.

In her ever-youthful vitality always beautiful.

Known only to read my letters.

My muse of late night in my workshop of ideas.

Here where I stand in the workshop of the imagination,

ideas and creativity.

While the beauty of a woman drawing her

that nobody knows that nobody sees me with it.

Autumnal.

If my muse was born with me into the fall.

The one I saw the leaves falling

and the raging sea of ​​my two seas.

The Mediterranean inspiration for the painters,

poets and songwriters of the sea and mother earth.

The Atlantic Ocean sea adventurers,

Sea marine buccaneers and pirates,

Pacific Ocean and seas.

Lay On the day trip to space.

I was born into the world and the universe of the various arts.

Today I write to the revolution in the arts,

or mundane revolution of change.

Today my arts are focused on the pottery of my lyrics

and the pottery of who is my muse,

you carve with a jug in her hand.

And looking to the endless sea,

sea ​​that we were born.

Mar seas.

Even as I review my letters, she dries the bracero

And deposited in the same oven to cook bread every day.

She looks like my muse sculpture rests

at the same lectern where dry tomorrow will be exposed.

Poetic Narrative Text ART-WILLIAM