for Picasso*

The painter paints
a dove.
The moment he lifts
his brush
for the last stroke,
the dove flutters --
Flies --
Enlarges itself:
Her whiteness,
Her wings,
Her peace,
Covering the whole world,
Silencing the world
For a moment.
Then, it disappears
For a reason –
Why? Only the painter knows.
And the world rotates…
On its axis, rotating
And the world revolves…
Around the sun, revolving
And the world waits,
Waiting…
And waiting…
For the painter,
For another painter
To paint another dove.