Caravaggio

See this woman, a whore,

Who was so poor she could not wash my feet.

She lives with courage not with fear,

And washed my feet with her tears.

I see my people in terrible need,

Enslaved by their church.

I see their pain and how they bleed,

Violence I beseech.

I live with the outcast and the damned.

I live by the heist.

My life, fate as it planned,

My Madonna, my Christ.

Only torment can create such masterpieces.

Was your Lord not tormented like our outcasts?

With reality outrage increases

Till my present becomes my past.

Everyone fears their death,

The extinguishing of the flame

Their last drawing breath

Terror, then peace, and the soul remains.

Truth is in the light, within the eyes.

Madonna with the face of a whore.

Art is truth, and truth a Godly prize,

Which the Church could suffer no more.

The darkness, the colour,

Blood, gruesome red.

His carelessness, his valour.

Too early dead.

Craig

19/04/2025

Ó     Copyright Craig Buller 2025. All rights reserved.