This poem
is for Picasso
who didn't have hair and looked like cheese.
He divided up
the bodies of people
and a new form of art was born in the world.
A circle of yellow
became the sun
a rainbow sprouted in an intestine exposed,
a lost bicycle
when pounded and earrings thrown
let grow in the world to a thousand green beans:
Now that he's gone
Picasso, what machine
would keep order in our dreams? What charm
would vaccinate
against the blood of war and abandonment
so that the tattered world would again be beautiful?
Against the blood of war! ! With the muse of an artist (Pablo Picasso) . Nice work.
Pablo Picasso was born in Spain but lived for along time in France and did most of his paintings there. He could be considered the father of modern art. His paintings were weird, but not as weird as those of Salvador Dali. As far as this poem goes, I enjoyed reading it until I got to the last verse, and then it lost me completely. I have no idea what the poet is trying to convey here. This verse makes no sense at all to me. Sorry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Why create offering for Picasso