The Painter

In the coffin-black night once more he would dream the wooden table and its shroud-white cloth covered with roasted lambs and carafes of wine, slices of watermelon, and rounds of ghost-white cheese. Pomegranates and olives would build pyramids. In the coffin-black night, the painter would close his eyes to the blurring belfries and blue mountains of pines to view a barmecide banquet like a magic, colourful carpet rolling out in the endless, candle-lit night heavy with nectar, smoke and ambrosia. And he dreamt the walls of formidable churches where faded apostles, timeless and flat, broke breads devoid of the greenness of time and sipped inexhaustible cups of new wine.

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