I knew them first as the chrome
and ochre yellows that seemed
to scream from the brush of the man
who cut off his own ear.
But here, so affectionate,
the lionheads turned upwards
to follow the movement of their beloved, until
their necks are limp and wrung,
their spent gold drooping heavy on their shoulders .
O Lord, I cannot hear You
For the ticking of the clock,
For the humming of the refridgerator,
For the sighing of the air conditioner.
Speak, shatter these dim voices,
These clattering machines
With their incessant insistent grey din,
Explode into the dimness of the world.
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