The brain – then brush here celebrate that long red stain seeping the universe.
Was not the chink of light peeping between the walls of birth – of death transient enough? – and yet this trivial massacre must shorten it.
And only one protests – that man white-shirted – arms upraised in one last gesturing of affirmation.
If he had got the time he might be singing – might tell them that life still has its treasuries to open for him at least – perhaps for them.
But these are no times for song, only that flinging of his arms is yet permitted him, and all his dazzling white and blaze-dark eyes are but a silhouette against the symmetry of dying.
One moment hence or rather but a millionth of a moment and life will be a full stop – filled with blood. ~
Violence ( Goya “The Third of May 1808”) –
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