• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 01

Bosch’s prayers

To Nur, my divine spark, my sun, my inception, the world of my subconsicousness that I
have always sought, the paradise I have always dreamed of returning

On the canvas, the screen onto which I project my soul
in order for yours to become visible

On the canvas, Plato’s cave, where the only fire
reminisces that the physical world is
but an illusion

On the canvas, the rabit’s hole in Wonderland
into which you fall, through a black hole into a parallel universe
only to shipwreck on the other shore of time

On the canvas, the sleepless dream of Zhuangzi
in which you are the butterfly, and the butterfly, you
where a flower guards the secret wisdoms of an old child

Into my canvas, you enter
where I lose my way in a delirum
and bump into my other self, in another world
where lines run
where forms bleed
where deconstruction is the force to create

On my canvas, you play
setting free Kandinsky’s circles


Bosch’s prayers

crowning Miro’s madness
I whisper in the eras of Van Gogh who lives inside me
that even the darkest night of the soul, is not without a star-studded sky

On my canvas, you leap
I fly, free from the chains of reason that tie me to my earthly cage
toward the self, lying dormant in my subconsciousness
in my memories, and in yours

On my canvas, you float
I sail in your world of energy and particle, under the sea
filled with memories of a world prior to all the worlds
before Adam takes his first breath
where imperfections had not been dreamed of

On my canvas, you crucify
stripping me to my enchanted soul,
nailed to this cross like a cursed matyr
like an old man with enormous, feathreless wings

On my canvas, you stand witness
to my strokes, not with oil, but with my own blood and tears
where my soul is laid bare, not with paintbrushes, but with nails
where I give up my first-born to God, as sacrifice to the divine spark
planted inside me, like a seed
for it to shine, and light up the world

To my canvas, you return
a cloudless sky, like the pupils of an angel
like the sigh of an elf,
like a lightening on a summer day that glimpses the apocalypse,
And beyond,
rests my tired and tormented soul

In my canvas, you stay, as my destiny
has lost its way. I am
A work in progress,
A particle in creation,
A movement, without stop.


Bosch’s prayers

In my canvas, you search
and you find. You encounter yourself,
and I, myself.

In my bottomless universe, my infite world,
empty, yet full;
we are nothing,
yet all.