Fait accompli

A gray and sullen sky is up there
With no flying birds frozen into it.

I cannot but paint the birds back
In seeming blue sky, as tiny dots

On a painted canvas of the world.
Artist freedom is indeed at stake

And I surely want the birds there.
But I have to maintain a proximity

With truth,with the actual world’s,
In a kind of pretension of reality,

With the verisimilitude of no birds
And no sun but just white clouds.

I wonder why in the name of God
Facts always come accomplished.

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