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Blue spring: the dream

Tecnica: ink, ballpoint pen, and dry pastel on paper.

There is no longer a last song; there is a resonating echo breaking through walls. While some flowers are poisoned with too many thoughts about the reality we ought to thrive in, those flowers of mine happen to be blossoming souls which once sang to meet each other in the sand, in the air, in the trees and in the winding leaves. You may cry, so will I whilst the spring is turning blue. Yet, the dream claims: “please hang on, wait, my love, because there are no farewells in the land of dreams”.
Blue is the warmest color, I guess, and I would rather believe that you and I will meet there: in the land of blue. Please don’t sigh in despair ¡oh! you, little singing bird.

The horizon sometimes leads to the shining moon…

Verónica Madrid-Malo
Verónica Madrid-Malo
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