In Flagstaff Garden’s gentle shade,
A bald head gleams beneath the day,
Brush in hand, the artist sways,
Tracing colors where masks will play.
A Peking opera rises there,
Red and black upon pale skin,
Curved lines like whispers in the air,
Stories of warriors drawn within.
A mustache arches, bold, precise,
Shadowed against the garden’s green,
Each stroke a dance, each hue a slice
Of ancient theatre, alive, unseen.
Pedestrians pause, the city hums,
But time slows here, a quiet art,
Two souls converse with pigment drums,
And painted faces speak from heart.
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Good observations-Christine cmlk79.blogspot.com
ReplyDeleteHe is a Superhero that I don't recognize. I'm sure he will leave this scene to go do great good.
ReplyDeleteThe parade of pigmented faces continues, each one with a peculiarity distinct from the previous one.
ReplyDeleteUna actividad creativa e inclusiva que brilla en la calle mostrando el arte del pintor o maquillador. Por ahora el resultado es un tanto sorprendente y casi terrorífico.
ReplyDeleteUn abrazo