Against the rows of translucent eyes,
They paused, with their clumsily head-sets
Hanging half on and off, flashing the ecliptic's
Troubled furrows with smart-phones "referencing"
The sad genius as an obvious, immutable fact, for all to see
In that solitary figure sowing his seminal seeds
Against a yellowed, thickly cut, Sun's swirling light
Beckoning nature, through a rhythmic, purposeful
Stride- was he the measure of her whole creation-
Pressing the friable clays between his rough, sure hands?
The grains will gather in another year's ripeness
And disperse their inconspicuous vitality like the loose strands
Lost through an endless crowd shuffling quietly by him,
Pictures becoming pictures, like Brugel's blind leading the blind
Through this immaculate gallery you would of surely hated
The strict geometrical emptiness of our pure pristine shapes
Transvering some abstract, universal terrain, without man or beast
No shadow would of ever fallen to fertilise your barren land-
Yet they appalled and maddened your frenzied mind - to rage-
Your crazed fist at the crows circling blue heavens above a reaper's head-
Yet, you knew, the wisest and the cruellest has its ultimate measure-
Not in these waxed galleries where satisfied faces become nothing more
Than a travesty of life, but in your parched canvass, where you were always
Alone, under those rays, waiting for God's most secret revelations.
The Reaper, Van Gogh Gallery Amsterdam
