Wheatfield with Crows
(July 29th, 1890)
here is the last, impasto
sky, heavy as
stone, a terrible
hypoxic blue, as if the gods
themselves have been strangled
by their own chains; crows
screaming like newborns, they rise
like the discolored blooms
of weightless, dying
flowers, releasing
the secret of love’s inception, from the toxic
fumes of extinguished desire, fading
against the whitewashed
horizon, until they completely
disappear into clouds, haphazardly
smeared as a child’s
finger painting.
For one who found salvation, not
in the visible, palpable truths that often
waver and acclimate to the fluctuating
reality of an endless
amount of suns and skies, but instead, who saw
it clearly
in the imperciptable, ante-meridian shadows
of the Saint’s cloistered soul,
it was only right that it be
the brightest day of summer, when all
reason and evidnece of our profane
humainty and the folly of our vulgar
exhalations are undeniably
fixed like a sadness that has seeped
into the deepest parts of your being,
when you saw the last light, blinding
as the first.
But with this blindness comes the vision
that is impossible to depict, with even the rarest,
and most resplendent
pigments. Long after the paint is dried
and crumbles from the canvas like scabs from forgotten
wounds, these secret passages, these paths
in the wheat, worn down by the weight of a thousand other
skies, and seared into the eternal landscape
of immeasurable
other lives, will never fade
or burn. The path will always
be there. It has no
beginning, and
no end.
- Adam Stanley
Thank you, Mme. Scherzo.
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