They say Verona’s roses paled nearby
and summer winds retired out of spite
the day the master poised the brush to paint.
Madonna smiles, resplendent in her grace,
the Child swaddled in her azure robes:
The critics rave about the lucid strokes
that shine like flames upon a canvas sea.
The hues shine through the many centuries,
the souvenir of brightest brilliance,
undying to the transient populace.
Instead –
thrown out with trash and cans of beer,
half-painted as a shoddy, forged Vermeer,
by whom, but rats shall it be seen?
Oh Fame, you are a fickle, fickle fiend!
