Art

Photo by Ashley Edwards on Unsplash

Sewed lips are singing the dictated words into a rusty microphone
in a hoarse voice that is not his but of the ones holding the tied threads.
With that melody, blindness is sown,
and awakened eyes are being shut with deadly threats.

In the galleries across the city where wooden wheels would not reach,
on their high walls hung numerous portraits
of the same flat face painted with bleach
looking down his nose at monotonous palettes.

Tied hands are writing hymns for illusive deeds,
while the tongue of Truth was left rotten on a blank page.
Is it art, then, if the colours and letters are not freed
and the artists are chained inside the cage?