She comes through the painting

Into this world

Born and bred by colours

With the light as her God



Following every move I make

Every step I take is observed

Killing my thirst of longing

Far beyond the boundaries of death

I'm running down a sunlit path

Strengthened stroke by stroke

The brush, creating lives

It's like the hand of God



But this God is the pastureland of the weak

Where we will never set foot

Life's distorted by these low-minded

Made into a dismal path

Affection sinking below horizons of disgrace

Subsequently dying, immersed in blackened ignorance

The stench of sickening hypocrisy

Hiding from the truth behind walls within

Constantly reinforcing them in this world,

this world of painters



In the arms of midsummer embrace

I leave my body to the wilderness

My thoughts they fall from grace

To discover the secrets of nature

In this world, this world of painters