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Writing. Musicking. Creating. Such are her dreams.

She writes songs and stories, essays and poetry, and imagines she is a traveling bard in a faraway forgotten land. She draws her long bow over the taut steel strings of her German violin. She sings loudly and with abandon, and she doesn't care if you stare. Her fingers run over ivory steps, chasing the melodies out from under the black and white keys.

She stands before the Mediterranean Sea and stares out at the steam thick upon the horizon. She marvels at the poetry to be found in the waves carrying dragons and mermaids who hide among the sea foam. She watches and dreams and loves and hopes but she doesn't always understand.






women are raising pale arms
in the smoking damp air
to hail taxis—

rain shivers like fountains from a mountain
trickling down the glass walls of celestial towers
fishes jump clear of the river
of paintings held captive in museums—
my dream is a city of one million dwellings
and beckoning roads to unexplored lands—

listen, all you need to take is a lipstick
and I two bottles of wine—
and we will wake from the darkened stream
of deep traveling
on a luminous bed in a singular inn
with the pale gurgling of water in the gutters—

so that I may drunkenly utter—
no, write in red on the misty mirror:
I love you, you know—
yes, yes I now love you so

- Breyten Breytenbach

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