Kyril was a splendid man, devoted to his art,
And a lifelong zealot of détente, in which he played his part.
He'd travel east-west-east-and-back, arranging for some show.
He knew that only little minds set rules where one must go.
He was working here on a monoprint, so I had to paint him quick.
His left hand holds, not brush or chalk, but a hateful cancer-stick.
'The good die young', they always say. Ridiculous idea!
But I'm still stirred by his husky voice, confiding in my ear -
'Iss goot trawing.'