PICASSO'S NIGHT

Dawn in your studio
one cannot believe
the late hour drawing near
what a tiny lily mistaken
in the white slate
of color chiaroscuro
that over shadowed you
all night,
you cannot get rid
of blood hiding guilt
from your own heart
when Max is nearby
who once welcomed you
to Paris,
and still calls on you
beyond the grave,
"Save me Pablo,"
now who are
the enemies of art
with new yellow parasols
made from slave labor
in reactionary horror
to unyielding freedom
are not embarrassed
to turn away to honor death,
all exclamations
reflected in the blood moon
outside your window
in the grey Occupation
magnified by the snow
where your friend
Max Jacob had no companions
covering his last Sunday walk
hovers to pray in a vision
to honor the Virgin
under his last train journey
except for an earth angel
waiting for him
all his life
in the azure sky
who is also cold
trembles by floodlights
behind iron gates
of warring eyelids of guards
inspired with hatred,
eternal horsemen
with whips devouring you
from a war machine
in a century's ashes
of murdered apocalypse
by fascism's motifs
and bas reliefs
auto da fes from human fires
and brown shirted shadows
where the innocent
still cry out
with scarred lips
thinking we have forgotten.