In the gardens of countesses
he met angels, had visions
of god in palaces of princesses;
there was no place for you
in his art, no place in visions
of heaven, of divine love;
it was all for the nobles
who paid his bills, his entire
art. For our lion of verse
you, a faceless, nameless
one, wouldn't have existed -
except, perhaps, in distant
hell, beyond the sight of nobles
destined to the marble
halls of heavenly Jerusalem,
and the loving embrace
of their heavenly father,
no kin to you. To him,
you who now read his
elegies and sonnets and worse,
you would be less than nothing,
an insect like a liveried servant.
He wouldn't have spat
on you in midst of his reveries
- he wouldn't have noticed
you, at all. In his world,
you wouldn't be. So
why, dear person, do
you keenly read him who
would never sit in a dinner table
with someone like you,
who would never notice
you, when you would serve
to his divine aristocrats?
05.12.2020
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