The Playful Painter
Darya, the playful painter that makes the colours play as her little body swirls for us and her arms whirl like her smile all across her face.
I don't know much about her. I know that her cakes taste like delicicious parcels for the mouth. I know that in her body she is comfortable and like that she plays her instrument. Like that she shows him how comfortable his body is. I also know that Naghme's eyes don't stop sparkling.
His hands carefully spread the soil, eyes concentrated and full of care laying the rooting pit of the Avocado in its mold. Pressing it firm with dedication, I yearn for his touch.
She is growing and taking hold of herself like no other. Lifting her weights, laying her wooden panels in her blossomful new home. Round shapes of yellow and jeans so phenomenal there is no-one like her. Now she curves vivaciously through the center of town and how easy.
This is my hometown. Mountains like snow, like sea, earthen pigment shooting in every direction, sedimenting and concentrating in a way most distinct in its urgent whim.