Magdalen with the Smoking Flame
by Georges de La Tour

I should wish today the grass were white to trample the evidence of seeing you suffer: I’d not look below your hand so young at the hard form, without death’s roughcast. One discretionary day, others for all that less avid than me, will take off your canvas chemise, will occupy your alcove. But they will forget as they go to douse the light and a little bit of oil will spill from the dagger of the flame upon the impossible solution.

René Char