It was always painful to remember the suicide
of a painter,
who was drawing the landscape
of hunger.
Polishing his art of pretention.
The time whistled past his window
without punctuation.
The terrain was tough, deepened by
requiem, the tears dried up
on the cheeks of chastity.
Script without drum and hue
of glowing eyes,
cracked lips
of us and our instruments of tragedy.
