My wife, I and the Blue Klein

Before I can appreciate the monochrome

- the one of the Dadaists,
and then the one of the abstraction's construction of the early twentieth century,
the symbol of the absolute disembodied of Rothko,
the "white paintings" of Rauschenberg,
the "monochrome propositions" of Klein - 

I had to get away from home 1.150 km,
getting lost in cities that I did not know,
getting lost in dialogues of others in incomprehensible language,
lost in moods that I knew only by name
but I had never really tried:
homesickness, hope, loneliness, aliennes,

and finally I find myself writing in my notebook
leaning on the shopping cart
in a supermarket full of unknown product's brands,

writing that
a few days ago,
at the end of an exhausting day
entering with my wife in a stationery shop
she and I were in agreement
looking at some monochrome cardstocks
that it would be nice to get one

- maybe a blue, a blue klein -

and frame it
and hang it on the walls of our new home
and enjoy the single note that issues,
the absolute quiet of its pattern.