Dedicated to the poet's muse, Gerda Taro
It began in darkness, as ravens refused to sing about the fallen comrades while I stared at my lifeless limb an arm’s length away, painted with the blood of something beautiful all over me.
Ted, do not look for my tears in the wastelands of Brunete. We sound like strangers, caught in your moistened photo reels. La pequeña Rubia has gone for a walk to look for bullet holes in the night sky. Remind me while I lay down, how silly it was of me, wishing to the shooting stars for a morning, mourning to a war’s obituary. Somehow we found love in God’s irony. I don’t want to walk away with a closed fist while they bring flowers to my grave, so hand me my Leica. For the last time, I want to fall asleep feeling scared to paint the world louder than it is. My life ends with you, André, Walk away, till you are not close enough to think of me. Paris, The South of France, Robert Capa, The last night of Bastille Day. Settle down to a Bohemian song and never talk about me. Copain, Remember me as a time of day, as you tip-toe behind enemy lines and wait for a war cry, while I come for you.
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