I dreamt the delicate feet
Of a graceful and celebrated ballerina.
They seemed strong,
Burdened with tiredness of repetition
And emerging blisters professionally plastered.
Yet, their splendour was incontestable:
Powdered in a lovely concealing white
And beautifully traversed with bluish veins;
Elastic and vulnerable streams
Nurturing the 3-layered spheres
That kept her in place.
I have awoken with my hair wet
And my bare shoulders draped
In a thin scarf of warm and itchy sweat.
After an icy shower,
A stabbing hint of recognition
Encircled my skull as a halo of déjà vu:
Of course, it was sensuous Camille
Claudel’s cinematic gift meant to impress
The morose bearded Rodin; predictably
The professed piece of art was a sole sole,
Singularity which defined her late torturous fate.
I tremble at the thought of
Insupportably wondrous Isabelle Adjani’s feet:
Unfairly besieged maybe now by
Worn and torn scars the passing’s cruelty
Weaves in our delicacy.
Only the marble, chiselled
With sheer determination
And unparalleled vision, keeps unaffected
The perfection of a nude limb;
Destiny of dragging perfectly contained in
A chalky reverie of tracks exhibited in museums.