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Duende.
  I am not so much emotion, as flight.
  a blue jay's wings fluttering in midair,
  molecules of dust caught in morning light.
  The crescent curve of a moon laid bare.
  To Paint, To Create, To Dance, To Sing:
  I am energy flowing crown to toe
  and outwards, upwards, ever transforming
  ---- infectious fluid fire erasing woe.
  The stars strain to hear, they cry out my name,
  burning for the one who burns in return.
  A flash of Heaven, a moment untame,
  my soul is the soul for which Artists yearn.
  God gives wings to man and Beauty is born,
  a glimpse of Creation, vast and time worn.

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The title comes from the untranslatable Spanish word ‘duende’, which “climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.” and is often spoken in relation to art and performance.