all this madness                                                          
the thirst of many years                                             
the accumulated poison                                             
in an urge to possess                                                  
subtle sting                                                                 
of criminal silences                                                     
through millions of stone beings    
                            
what remains, are the transparent roots appearing    
a return in time to that other time                              
quietly, the grief. Loudly, the pain                            
the slightest hope                                                       
will form the exact language for                                
the thread and the hair                                                           
the fingers of the wind                                              
the caress of fabrics                                                   
the murmur of streams                                               
the one who captures color                                        
all the bells                                                                 
trembling in the ticking                                              
pulse of light  
                                                            
the same cloudy yellow sky                                      
above all, the magnificent                                          
the green-gold of your eyes                                      
I have never seen tenderness as great                        
a doorway open to                                                     
the violence of being                                                  
inky worlds                                                                
still full of sensations                                                 
where shall I turn my eyes?                                           

~ Cento of lines taken from Frida Kahlo’s Diary, translated by Barbara Crow de Toledo and Ricardo Pohlenz, p. 205, 206, 208, 209, 210, 213-216, 227, 229, 243, 249, 270, 273, 275