The walls proudly adorned of their nakedness
Seem cold without the Baroque embellishment,
Classical urns and Cubist duality.
The whites that once rested behind paintings
Squint with a brightness more than the rest,
Unused to usual yellowing of the sun.
Shadows that remarked upon the detail of Proserpina
Shirk blankness of walls and floors,
Parts of which seem newly uncovered.
Voices that brooded to a hush upon Rodin,
His natural emotionality enshrined in bronze, no longer
Serve as the anchor for those craving speechlessness.
In the silent vortex of a Pietà absent,
Mary’s sorrow does not haunt the halls as it once did
But atria of the mezzanine are awash with
Echoes of the divinity that here resided.
Picasso’s perspective abandons the gallery,
Leaving it but with a limited dimensionality.
The elaborate, personal derivations of the real yet stars that belong in dreams,
Colours that blushed a canvas with the poetry of lilies atop a reflective blue
Have etched impressions into walls and
In the ghosts of sounds that will forever stalk this empty gallery.
The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈpraɦa]