original painting, watercolours and acrylic on cotton canvas, unframed and rolled


In my dreams I travel back to little village forgotten in the past...


There are ruins of houses that vanished underneath the grounds. Moss swallowed the signs of past. Soils poured over mans' paths erasing the existence. But when I close my eyes I can smell the little bakery and its bread. Grains scattered onto concrete floor milled into past with every step. 


There was a painter born and dead between the whispers of ancient trees. He picked the brush yet never his courage and burnt the canvases. There were beautiful images I can only pick on the other side of the dreams. With every breathe less of them present. Ink absorbing deeper into the past, untraceable paths. Silent voices of people. 


The village is almost gone. Each time I blink it escapes between my lashes, oxidising  memory into non existent. The taste is stale, the sound mute, no more pictures form. 


I need to let it go. Move to where it come from. At the end of the path little shadow of human breaking behind the horizon plays the trick with my eyes. It blurs and stretches pulled into vacuum of the gone. Only trace it leaves behind tear dried into stone on the bottom of my eye. That stone is a ruin of the village stored safely from utter extinction. I let it stay while whispering old song. The trees pick it up and swish its melody forever. And sometimes I can hear it again. 


Be safe dear.