Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs There painting

Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs There paintingFrida Kahlo Fruits of the Earth paintingFrida Kahlo Diego and I painting
annual poetry competition, after which the seven best verses will be nailed up on the walls of the House of the Black Stone. The poets are getting into shape for their big day; Abu Simbel laughs at minstrels singing vicious satires, vitriolic odes commissioned by one chief against another, by one tribe against its neighbour. And nods in recognition as one of the poets falls into step beside him, a sharp narrow youth with frenzied fingers. This young lampoonist already has the most feared tongue in all Jahilia, but to Abu Simbel he is almost deferential. "Why so preoccupied, Grandee? If you were not losing your hair I'd tell you to let it down." Abu Simbel grins his sloping grin. "Such a reputation," he muses. "Such fame, even before your milk-teeth have fallen out. Look out or we'll have to draw those teeth for you." He is teasing, speaking lightly, but even this lightness is laced with menace, because of the extent of his power. The boy is unabashed. Matching Abu Simbel stride for stride, he replies: "For every one you pull out, a stronger one will grow, biting deeper, drawing hotter spurts of blood." The Grandee, vaguely, nods. "