Mona Lisa Poem by Daniel Ionita

Just give me your hand, Mona Lisa, and flee;
leave mouldy museums to quibble and moan -
the world waits outside, made of flesh and of bone,
with rain and with sunshine, with mountains and sea.

For hundreds of years you have hung on this wall,
in hope Leonardo will somehow appear -
while loafers and fools gave you praises or smear
and packed like sardines, they remained in your thrall.

Your gaze speaks a playful or insolent tale -
as thousands of critics are wont to explain -
but what matter words, be they wise or mundane,
when up on this wall hangs your heart, by a nail?

I'll wait till the evening at the inn down the lane,
that's crowded with people of flesh and of bone;
leave stuffy old Louvres to quibble and moan,
and we'll dance in the sunshine and run in the rain.