第45部分(第7/7 頁)

the　mouth

of　Satan；　the　subtle　accent　lines　within　picture　borders；　the　curled　embroidery

on tents； flowers barely visible to the naked eye made for the artist’s own

pleasure；　blouses　worn　by　stunning　women　with　outstretched　necks　watching

the　street　through　open　shutters；　the　sour…cherry　eyes　of　bird　statues　made　of

sugar； the stockings of shepherds； the dawns described in legends and the

corpses　and　wounds　of　thousands；　nay；　tens　of　thousands　of　lovers；　warriors

and　shahs。　I　love　engaging　in　scenes　of　war　where　blood　blooms　like　poppies；

appearing　on　the　caftan　of　the　most　proficient　of　bards　listening　to　music　on　a

countryside outing as pretty boys and poets partake of wine； I love

illuminating the wings of angels； the lips of maidens； the death wounds of

corpses　and　severed　heads　bespeckled　with　blood。

I　hear　the　question　upon　your　lips：　What　is　it　to　be　a　color？

204

Color　is　the　touch　of　the　eye；　music　to　the　deaf；　a　word　out　of　the　darkness。

Because I’ve listened to souls whispering—like the susurrus of the wind—

fro