A portrait, a man of the past
A future secured by the stroke of a brush, curled around
The warm feel of the paint that he trusted so well
Set seal on the artist's reply
Relay through the portrait, assessed through the language
Of love and emotion, it's true, so Picasso lies still
Lies still
If distance confusion attained, relies on the artist to sign all
Proportions as neatly as facets of clay that were started so well
If sought you may find the recluse, as busy as days that beset him to
Paint all the sorrow and pain and the future of wars, sad but true
So Picasso lies still
Lies still
Lies still
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