The Picture

She descended from the picture to sit down on her empty chair. Her geographic tongue kept silence. She was in the middle of nowhere. Her cubic dreams dissolved in the reality of her fashionable loneliness - a mask. In the still air, a bird like a huge cross made of icy love brought transparency. She took her diary and started to jot down phrases about a life in pieces. Some old words that have been deposited there looked like those dried leaves of any herbarium. Her diary was not green at all while keeping safe her unique love, longing for a little life - two elementary cells subsiding into a biochemical contemplation, seeds growing in the humungous womb of the earth to become future flowers. On the retina of her eyes, lost worlds were still existent, still green. She looked into the mirror to see the unseen. She understood her death. She would leave that space to go somewhere where she could hope against hope to find a little happiness. She would go, but she did not. She disappeared into the picture. Poem by Marieta Maglas