It Is In Front Of The The

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.