Let's without hands sit on the tree*

Like that painting,
Like bloody carcass, creepy,
Right on a dead tree,
Violence of sabres, bayonets,
Whence ripped men, women, children,
Ruthless, like the tongues slimy of greed and grease,
Francisco whence once told upon Art,
And played with the carnage, by His immortal hands, making red
All sheets white, of His Beauty,
Just, just to stand by the dying humanity,

Sometimes, seeing us,
So lame, so crippled, so coward,
Killing us, me finds, how,
Francisco and his head , never bowed,

Never following rulers and scales,
Only his, vast, the magnanimous papyrus,
His paints, his sketches, his charcoal art,
Blackish, only to make the thoughtless think,
And to them, how He, to Wells of red,
Turned, till the flood of blood, in the well,
Welled Up.

{*Note: upon Francisco Goya's painting titled "The Disaster of War Series", no.37}

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