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,
In that solitary figure sowing his seminal seeds
Against a yellowed, thickly cut, sun's swirling light
Beckoning his 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 on the loose strands
Lost through this endless crowds' shuffling, quietly by him,
The pictures becoming pictures, like Brugel's blind leading the blind
Through an immaculate gallery you would of despised
The strict geometrical emptiness of our pure pristine shapes
Transversing 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-
A crazed fist at the crows circling the reaper's blue heaven.
Yet, the wisest and the stupidest have their ultimate measure-
Not in waxed galleries where faces become nothing more
Than a travesty, but in parched canvass, where you were always
Alone, under fiery rays, waiting for God's secret revelations.
The Reaper, Van Gogh Gallery Amsterdam