Black Queen series

The hand touched the veil most transparent, draped upon the sculpted chair. It was that time at the onset of the night when noise seemed never-ending. Upon the sculpted chair, the place of the female body with no owner, stiffened. Almost nothing, powerful, complete and sterile like a church occupied without haste, in silence. Breathed out and thick.
The immobility of surrounding stones, the glittering of spears, the disquiet of power, the power of fear, gaze and gesture freeze, turning into ashes the days of flowers, the great morning of life.
She keeps her promise and the quietness of the people, the rise of the nations. She keeps the indigo of new seas and of their dark-spleen interiors, their relic body, reliquary. The body where life does not regret death and the kiss tastes of spices and warm blood. The body that slides and almost stops, trembles and beats, almost nothing, that whispers kindness without rudderless pleasure. The body where hurry breaks within its chiseled contours.
Exile brocade, black journey beyond the new skin, transparent and pure. Fate, freshly furrowed in a field of death and gunpowder. The insistent quarrels of men and heritages and her. She, divine destiny, chosen from the wisdom of the earth, the first and last owning the condition of the Unique. December 2012


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