Art, Poetry

His journey through art

after Zbigniew Herbert

A long time ago the gallery attendant
believed in art

his paintbrush thrummed
an irresistible beat

and the rhythm of colour
filled the canvas

what was beyond the edges
was lazy and unfocused

he doesn’t remember being hungry
but compared to the empty fullness now

it was not the fault of chiaroscuro
of perspective
of depth of field

that his passion stopped
at winter’s grey

(he doesn’t know why sometimes
love just ends)

the gallery attendant
began to make arguments against art
thought he could tear apart

the harmonies of complementary colours
rip the rainbow with a blade

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabut he’s a slave
locked inside, serving a dead master

history’s orbit moved on
and the gallery attendant’s inner axis
settled on its present rotation

while he waited the changing
of the ocean currents

there’s nothing just or unjust
in the operations of the universe
and there’s no value in objects alone
in dusty space.


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