Friedrich,
c. 1810
In dead of winter, bare trees frame the snow
Shrouded graveyard, strewn dead branches, crosses,
Stark slow funeral procession bearing woe
Through the narrow archway of all losses
To its consummation devoutly death
Wished, its sluggish lust entering the hole
Called times passage, spilling like a last breath
Into the open graves harsh, silent toll,
The cathedrals gothic ruins looming,
Their grandest tombstone. The painting haunts still
In a photo ghostly with its glooming
Romantic self-fulfilling overkill
The painting slashed by deaths ghastliest knife
In World War II: Almost art almost life.

|