An old man on canvas, struts his stuff like
he owns the joint, his fingers molded over, clutching at the bottle he holds so dear –
can you hear the wind? An old Guru is singing in the trees
and his face is filled with bees.
Purple you say? Decadent color of the line of kings;
I remember his tired face cold upon the bed, and I
swear, the end of days was never quite so bold.