
In Mariscalโs world of lines and thought,
where pictures play, where ideas are caught,
a glimpse of his heart, unpolished and bare,
a volume of moments, suspended mid-air.
Pages spill over with snippets of time,
not tethered to order, nor reason, nor rhyme.
Each stroke, each shade, a whisper of past,
a notebook of dreams heโs brought home at last.
Here, sketches that slumbered in dusted retreat,
now gather in clusters, now finally meet.
Hand-picked by their maker, shuffled with care,
until every piece found its rightful share.
Through traces of pencil, of ink, of his hand,
we wander his stories, we start to understand
how drawing could hold him, console, and ignite
the embers of days, the quiet of night.
In moments he grants us his own “why” and “how,”
how the world took its shape, how he feels it now.
A guide through his life, in hues warm and true,
Mariscalโs heart, his canvas, his view.
So here we are gifted, to see and to feel
the quiet, the chaos, the memories realโ
not just as an artist, but human and whole,
his sketches are windows that cradle his soul.
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