Chrysta Bell

She’s from San Antonio they say it’s in Texas
Maybe it’s a desert it sounds like a long breath
In a deep silencio with a Mexican thrill
Since I never was there I know she’s from Texas

A little girl she grows they say it’s a big town
Everything is swallowed by the eternal light
And the sound of fury many people and cars

And people never knew
She was dancing at night
and whispering her moods through the towers of glass

She’s a friend of old trees of old gods and old dreams
She can flatter a snake
She can moan she can scream
She’s an ancient wizard
She can whistle with a blade of grass

I would say she’s a cat and she died many times
Oh yeah she died for love but also bigger wrath
She’s a woman of storm and her smell you’ll never pass
Never fades it’s printed for a lifetime in your mind
Her soul is indigo and her arms can break the sky

She is from the desert or a place you can’t find
She is going nowhere
Never hers never mine
She can sleep anytime in a bucket of flames
While her hair of black coal is just torching my mind

Oh please let me away
Little soul indigo
She’s from San Antonio and she is from Texas…

Copenhagen, 2018, April 24th.

I'm writing. Poems. Stories. Songs. And not so boring reviews about movies, actors and, if I get really angry, news. In the blank spaces, I'm teaching. "Littérature". ""Theater"" (double quotation marks, nobody can teach Theater... nobody can teach anything...) In a high school. A French one. In Copenhagen. Denmark. Capital city. My biography is still in progress, not that impressive (don´t be shy) and will be updated when required. Next time I'm considering quitting everything for a non-sense relocation project of myself in Louisiana (the American one). Here it is folks. Enjoy reading (and not only me). Sébastien

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