Life without movement, energy without motion,
Body made of colors, soul of linen and oil,
Each limb twirling about -can you see how they coil?-,
One hundred thousand strokes -as many emotion-,
In this infinitely finite space with no wall,
Trapped in an eternal prison -a single stance-
Where no footsteps echo, standing, graceful and tall,
There, under the sky, you can almost see her dance.
Only then, in that place, does she really exist,
Dark skin on white canvas, blurred in its moveless midst.
But suddenly a doubt, as your eyes turn away,
Could it really be it? Did you not see her sway?