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.