On Mont Sainte-Victoire

After a poem by Georges Rouault

The trees at nightfall, mistral-tossed,
swept darkly at a sky embossed
with stars. The tired hermit gazed
upon the firmament, unfazed
again by symbols of success,
the lights parading in a tress
of banners. “Brrrr, it’s cold,” he said,
and pushed that black hat on his head
around which laurels never wound,
as none could reach the higher ground.

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