There is ni a night where I do not think of them,
The different souls pushing me to tell their stories,
The spirits held above by my own madness.
They are the ones who drive me,
They are the ones who have the power to stall me,
The ones who make sense of the pictures I see,
Seen with the third eye; by impulse and other things,
Things I do not pretend to understand.
I can try to commit their stories to paper,
I can try to capture the essence of the picture,
But something is always lost with my telling,
The shades between an elegant painting.
Will I ever make them proud?
Or will I drive their passions to the ground.
Colors unseen, insufficient and haunting,
The tones of a painting lost to amateur reckoning,
Words, translations of the picture incomplete.
Is it possible to make a story from a picture?
Are words the proper conduct to images?
Can one describe the indescribable?
The tones that are there just for me.