Dear Vincent

Last night I found myself 

Walking in an alley in a French town. 

Strangely, I was dressed vintage -  

High winged collar shirt and a tailcoat,

Alongside few passing Victorian men. 

The calendar in one of the French windows 

Of a restaurant marked the year 1887. 

 

Down the yellow house, 

At the corner of Place Lamartine, Arles, 

I heard loud furious row. 

It sounded men, malignant and French. 

Deciphering any of it felt far-fetched. 

The gate barged open and a silhouette 

Of a man went vertically rocketing. 

 

There were drops of blood lingering. 

He walked and walked until 

He finally reached a nearby brothel. 

He had something stuffed in his hand. 

A message, money, or perhaps a present. 

He stood there and searched for someone. 

His eyes laid on a lady dressed in lush red. 

 

In his eyes was a proportion of love and defeat. 

He walked up to her politely, handed it, 

And walked away in silence, into the dark. 

I stood there watching him blend in dark. 

An alarming scream from within the brothel

Stinged my ears and left me trembling. 

The present turned out to be a piece of his ear. 

 

Last night, was an enigmatic night. 

I found myself sleeping under a bridge, 

With cold breezes freezing me to death,

I had crowd with opinions pass above me. 

They alleged that the man was retarded and mad.

That the man was mentally sick and argumentative.

That the man was depressed and a freak. 

 

With a bag full of allegations, 

And a head full of questions, 

I walked down the street at the first light.

I heard cheers, applause and roars 

From within a huge dome-like stadium.  

In the game of bullfight, the matador was winning.

I joined the crowd and tried comprehending 

With the game and all of its rules. 

 

The matador cut the bull's ear 

And showed it to the crowd with pride. 

The crowd went kooky and crazy. 

Luckily, I found a man who told me 

That it was a tradition to cut the 

Ear of the bull after defeating it. 

The thought wrenched and provoked me.

 

I blink-opened my eyes again

To the first rays of the sun. 

This time, in my actual room, 

My phone marked - 29-07-2022.

Front of me hung the painting of sunflowers,

A beam of sunlight spotlighting it. 

Written below on the right footer was - Vincent. 

 

My eyes were filled with love and defeat

Loving Vincent, was a good friend. 

Loving Vincent, was a dear brother. 

Loving Vincent, was a lover. 

And for some reason, he felt defeated by love.

Like the bull from the bullfight, 

The present to the lady was a symbol of defeat. 

 

When will I get to see more of you? I wondered. 

With a smile and whisper he said - 

"I often think that the night is more alive

And more richly coloured than the day". 

This night and every other night, I'd always, 

Always wait for a glimpse of you, and 

Another starry-starry night, my dear Vincent.