Edgar Degas

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I spent the morning visiting an old acquaintance

Saw his familiar expressions and heard his stories

Captured in the madness and mastery of brushstroke

 

Peeking behind the wings at the ballet

I saw nervous dancers feet beneath tulle skirts

Rehearsing with anticipation moments before the curtain

 

Listened to a café singer in Paris while

Sipping an espresso from a dimly lit corner

Her melodies floating over the smoky room with ease

 

Caught a glimpse of a woman bathing

In a symphony of limbs and abandonment

From an oval-shaped tub and the illusion of water

 

Yet, the mystery of art lies not with technique

But the reminder that when it encounters faith

Ghosts from the past become remarkably opaque