Joan Miró

The wind’s tongue. The always clear cobalt sky bit at your painting. In a prehistoric poster words doze like pebbles. A gallop of  feathers kidnaps the conversation between coarse ropes and wild beasts. You paint within a blinking birthmark the marriage of  heaven and hell faster than tying a ribbon in a mirror. Children’s playground. From some rolling balls one transparent ball flies off. I call it Miró. Translated from the Japanese