Rembrandt's Return of The Prodigal Son, 1669 "Speaking to the Soul, With Not Ever a Sound" Through lumpy, red, black, yellow oils, Layered in mellow glazes, light recoils, To write on the eye, a dark image profound, That speaks to the soul, with not ever a sound. Lurking in shadow, a marveling mum; Man crouching in wonder, counting the sum, Over the steward, dismayed older son, What holds their attention? Now come! This painter he knew, the power of all vice, Knew death takes children, lover,... Sign in to see full entry.