In Sedona,
What stays
Of the great painter :
A house with two storeys.
Vanished as in winter
His sculptures
In stone,
Stranges figures
All gone.
The life in Paris
Was far in this new basis.
Maybe that he remembered the camps
In south of France
Where they were as tramps
Him and others in no accordance
To their status
And in hiatus
With what was honest
Dear, dear Max Ernst.