Poetry

In the old painting something was living
displaying dead men in eternal youth,
it had some deeply hidden kind of truth,
about the evanescence of everything,
about the spirit, integrity that was rising
always conquering shattering untruth.
In the old painting,
 
as forever in life’s own awakening spring,
with their eyes on the point of azimuth
and among them a heroic kind of Ruth
with feelings of a strange awakening
in the old painting.