Winter
WINTER. Here as every evening Recalling passages from my childhood. Vivid experiences of odors and flavors. Those who today do not perceive. I lost it with my childhood. Recently Larry Ellison sought to clarify these questions. I am now preparing to create a figure more arcillada.
As always my muse to my vera always by my side. In my workshop ideas creativity workshop. From my large window to the horizon the Pyrenees. In this winter snowed. It snows in the mountains. Rethinking my ideas in this afternoon of rain. Fine.
Leaving rain to soften the hard clay of the road. Here in my workshop of ideas and creativity. Where inert this my muse of my mornings afternoons and nights. Kneading the arcillado mud that I picked up, the hard road of life. Outline of woman of extraordinary beauty, thinness of hips gooseneck, emerald green eyes, light brown hair and white skin as flour milling wheat grains in the mill. As the bread. I amaso. The bread on a daily basis that I give shape and cuezo in the oven every day. Their vitality she always it young always beautiful. Only known that read my lyrics. My Muse of the late night in my Studio of the ideas. Here where I rest in the workshop of imagination, ideas and creativity. While drawing this beautiful woman it that nobody knows that nobody sees me with her. Autumn. If my muse who was born with me into the autumn. Which saw as I fall leaves and the thrashing sea of my two seas. The Mediterranean inspiration of the artists painters, poets and singer-songwriters of the sea and mother earth. Ocean Atlantic sea adventurers, marine sea Buccaneers and pirates, sea Pacific and mar bravo. On the day that lay traveled to space. I was born to the world and the universe of various arts. Today I do not write to arts revolution, or the revolution of mundane change. Today my arts are centered in my letters pottery and pottery of the who is my muse, that I sculpt with a pitcher in her hand. And an eye on the infinite sea, sea that we witnessed the birth. Sea seas. Already while reviews my lyrics, it dries to the bracero and deposit in the same oven that cuezo the bread of every day. She looks my muse as he rests the sculpture at the same lectern where tomorrow dry it will be exposed. Text narrative poetic ARTE-WILLIAM original author and source of the article.