Kin

We approached the painter who weighted just a few

kilos yet he flew in revolutions that drew circles

on the wall. Certain and safe, that someone

else had died to fill Hades’ need. Wild and

delicate movements, pastel hues and chiaroscuro,

straight lines, his emotionally charged brush, his

canvas a dusty yard, no flowers, only emotions

for background and little huts as punishment

for the unrealized dreams of the emigre.

He smiled, and from that smile we knew: He

understood that we understood, the painter another

Übermensch. His alter ego, His beloved kin and

of course, ours.