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\"THE HEART\" OF THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM
poetry [ ]

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by [Vavila ]

2008-05-19  |     | 



Brought to the second story,
In the room „the museum’s heart”,
I shout: Hallucination!
I see how, from the frames of the paintings,
The naked bodies of Titian,
The kings, princes and gentlemen,
The aristocratic ladies of Goya,
Some of them graceful, some haughty;
I start to feel how suffering, injustice,
They strolled easily through that world,
Join to happiness, welfare,
There is nothing new in the universe, I tell myself,
Only a repetition! The sinuous line of life!
Here is Socrates threatening and yelling:
„This person is your soul!”
With his outreached hand, taking the poison,
With his voice touched faith’s wave...
I ponder... Jesus repeatedly said:
„Know thyself!”
And some people didn’t want to, didn’t want to listen...
Am I hallucinating? Dreaming?
But what would this passing through this museum be, without dreams?
All the soul’s dreams, I feel them open!
Rembrandt’s old men and philosophers appear;
For a long time I contemplate the face of Aristotle,
He who is contemplating Homer!
The meditation of meditation!
My staring look stare
Stops at this legendary poet,
At his crowned head of spiral curly hair...
Between his lips which stand ajar,
Poems flow...
His arched eyebrows show pride and courage;
His gaze is something out of this world...
„I am little of what I have met”,
I hear him saying.
Aristotle meditates rationally, profoundly,
Looks gently at Homer,
With a blessing hand,
And he answers:
„Yes, but you also, you have moved this world!”
I see the swords of light somewhere in the sky falling,
On the colorful faces,
Discovering truths, beauties,
The mystery of this departed world



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