"There are colors that are not born from light, but from the wound that learned to burn in silence."
It does not fly through the sky,
but through an illuminated shadow;
it carries in every feather a fall,
and in every color a sorrow.
The red of its chest is not longing:
it is the living memory of a wound;
a fire of contained blood
that learned to sing from wakefulness.
Under the black night it shines
like a broken fragment of summer,
while darkness slowly dissolves it.
And yet it remains sovereign,
because what trembles within shadow
never truly dies between the hands.
There are greens that resemble hope,
and blues like forgotten seas;
but all its tones were given
by the pain that dances in distance.
The stains of night surround it
like scattered dead universes,
small sorrowful stars immersed
in silences that never hesitate.
And the bird is no longer a bird: it is the eternal,
a flame painted in the invisible;
the indivisible radiance
of a paradise burning within hell.
By León Vechhio
Size: Vertical fabric canvas, 1.50 m height x 0.90 m width, raw (unframed)
Technique: Oil painting
Condition: Gifted
Code: LV-2020-001
Year of Creation: 2020
Author: Lucian Verona
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