The evening when the Devil sent his spawn to lead the people to salvation, I was the last one to stand my ground.
With my blood as ink and paper which was my skin,
I kept on weaving poetries, forced the rumble to be my inspiration.
Because art cannot come from peace,
Art cannot come from utopia.
I needed an apocalypse to shake me alive,
A dystopian venture to be my rope to survive,
The death of me to bring my art to life.
It gave birth to the spirit of duende.

When they abandoned the city in the dead of the night, the black cloak of smoke hid the misery those footprints left.
My art arose from the screams of death, from the silence of life and the stillness of motion.
Believe it or not, that night was an oxymoron on its own.
I saw the mystical moonlight melt from the Universe’s eyes,
and saw the change in the language of flowers,
The ones which were full of life, bled as if it were breathing.
It flourished the evocation of everything that moved me. Deeply.

Then the sun rose again, lavender sky with tangerine hues,
And my blacks turned into blues.
Turning into a rantipole, I had blurred images of those photo framed tales of love,
Under that lavender sky, I instilled the images of the shambles and crumbles of beauty.
For even if you destroy the beauty of art, I’ll make art out of destruction.
Take my power away, but you’ll never take the power art holds, moving me from within.
This is duende.

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