Similar to the light of our days
the black heralds greeted Goya
in the sordid world of the stupid kings;
the dance and the happiness seemed true
but only the scythe was truth.
Now without art
there is a dirty peace as in those kingdoms:
here they govern with a fingernail
and look and see all the bodies.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: art