The Mural
On the side of an old building
On a storefront wall
There is a narrative painting
Of young Icarus' fall
Angels now visible are blowing
A trumpet of blue light
And the Bronx soul here longing
While wax melt into night.
His name was Ortega, street wise
And still beloved, he died
In a cargo of bullets and noise
Emptied in his side
In the mural there is a candle
Flowers on a cross
Holy things that he did not handle
Being black has a cost.
But the painter is a prophet
And his cold vision tell
The world is at its sunset
And the ghetto is a hell.
The flowers fade on many walls
Silence answer now our calls.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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