was his art

The cigarette
near the coffee cup
on the square white table top
exhaled toward Picasso
a puff of anguish
for his heart.

A salty tear
rising from one chair
wore the hideous mask
and an immortal series
of a weeping woman
was born in torment.

She saw Mother
and dead Spanish babies
underneath the rubble
of a democratic dream
bombed in 1939
by a Fascist imbecile.

And the painting
became a statement
before the sudden fall of Paris in June
and his fading thought of Dora:
a lonely eye drawn on her sobbing cheek.

In fact he knew
with more than dreaming
that the only thing that counted
in his life
was his art.