As I was reading a witty treatise on artists and high critics
in which Oscar Wilde extolls contemplative existence
I looked at the protruding figures of The Last Supper opposite
my bed, upon which my eyes used to dwell every other minute
partaking of the bread and the wine within it.
There was a time when I awaited the sunset every early evening
and meditated over the celestial canvas,
the swallows darting across it
before the war shredded our lives
and clogged every stream of consciousness that rippled.
Our minds are now littered with worries
about the soaring costs of living,
the impossibility of being productive
without access to electricity,
the inability to travel with sanctions
that have estranged us from the human species.