eremacausis

All of these reli­gious men hang­ing upon walls. With­out words, lines, splashes of colour what legacy, what great­ness is theirs? We err. Impacted by the loud, the colour­ful, the lumi­nous; stone­flies; we have no say.

A philoso­pher is a harp lulling us to sleep. A priest, a splin­ter of flax. And I, well, what am I?

I am noth­ing at all, or per­haps a leaf fallen from a great tree, car­ried by the wind to a for­got­ten gul­ley, here lay down and fad­ing. A bet­ter fate than these poor men, no peace at all in museum halls.