All photos taken in Irina Ionesco's apartment and studio in France, with poetry narrating the 60 images. © Zora Burden 2016
Let me find you in all your luminous splendor among these walls
refracted mysteries the moments a glimpse permits. As light is filtered through resting hands and searching eyes. Blooms in hues of distant lands and the forbidden. Even the mirrors await your familiar gaze. I live among altars of antiquated rituals that reside forever on our hearts. I am a portal, an evocation, a sudden illumination the colors of a flame, reactionary and decadent, I was dreaming again, a universe of two of beauty and truth-fuchsia and yellow of perversity and desire -orange and red |
Repository of the sacred and profane, where the imagined has born a thousand realities, each a haven of prismatic sentiment. I long to know the secret part of you carried softly under weary eyelids full of apache tears, concealed in a pagan soul, the heathen mind, the feral child, who seeks to find refuge in the wilderness of the rebel heart. Let me be your solace, for an absolution, a lost sanctuary.
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Remembrances of you, lost in a collection of useless ephemera, of unknown and unclaimed words.
memories buried deeply at the farthest corners of forever. I resurrect them with my cries that echo throughout the lawless city within which you’ve walled up your heart. I am waiting, I wait as a book languishes shelved and unread, as the transient bodies of paramours await a new embrace. |
Between all the sunrises and sunsets, ancient guardian of the horizons, we remain lost fugitives in the shadow of yesterday and the myths of tomorrow - bring us a new dawn, one our eyes have not yet seen, our hearts have yet to feel, and our minds to know.
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Though I cannot be with you, I hold the sounds, sight, scent and touch of you in my very cells and they move within me, like millions of tiny universes burning exploding dying and reborn inside me, revolutions of fallen stardust that still ignite my hands with your magic. Memories that speak of an underworld language, that lives in our skin, on our tired tongues and aching fingertips, eternally yours, forlorn and longing, eternally you. Always, returning, to visions of you.
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