Tournesols 1887


By Ricardo Vidana

Staring at it,
slight bending at the neck,
I think to myself
Why sunflowers?

Is it because no matter what the situation
they will always find their way
towards the sun? Towards day?
Have you, my dear friend
from Arles?

You left us
the way the first frost comes.
It was inevitable,
but it still caught and left us cold.

Can you hear me
with your one good ear?

Did you find yourself
a way out
of the trembling hands
after the red paint waltzed out of your chest
from your last brushstroke

The wheat fields are alive.
Could you not listen to their movement?
Were the things that swirled
inside of your head
keeping you awake
in that spiral black and blue night
the way they keep me?

It’s summer now
and the sunflowers are in bloom.
A few of them are growing on your grave
and I hope that it means
you have found the sun.

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