Baby Boy

Maternity (1909) by Pablo Picasso

In ethereal warmth he hides,

Known and not blended both in crimson tides.

The stream within is in song with the sea without,

An opera choired by a cosmos tossed about.

And there, betwixt the three, he explores the boundary

In dance as big and grand as he.

The world he uncovers is covered once more

In a swell of peace home to Angels galore.

The story they whisper under star-lit shoal

Enchant his body, invade his soul.

Under cover of dark, Heaven stretches each utmost,

Bigger and grander than His greatest host.

Yet waters of growth are waters outgrown

When the halls of Heaven echo her groan.

At last, the tide crashes on the cosmic threshold.

The song is sung. The story is told.

Time offers a choice—live in the truth

Or drown in the fount of youth.

A struggle ensues, the first battle of a holy war.

Bloodied and choking, he washes ashore.

Triumphant lungs fill to tell the nation

The song of Glory, the story of Creation.

Words let out, bigger and grander than he

But, alas, shrouded in shrieks, smothered by a banshee.

Worse, as the tongue learns, the mind forgets

The face of a God as big and grand as it gets.

Every hour is a lyric forgotten.

Every day, a scene turned rotten.

It will take a lifetime to recover

What it took nine months to discover.


To my lovely baby boy. I’ll see you soon, Son.

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