by Kat Meyer
I hear the people's conversations
I see the many, many relations.
I see the detail in the dots
I feel the grass within the spots.
The people never look ahead,
Their immortal images never dead.
Children laugh, run, and play,
Never knowing they'd be immortal on this day.
I wonder if they knew
They were being watched by you.
To those in the painting, whether it is or not,
It's always a Sunday afternoon on the island of La Grand Jatte.
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