From the beginning to the end of his life

Poetry on canvas was what for he stride

He always kept silent

Always delayed

With eyes of a Virgin, the skin of a child

In fancy he saw he did exploits, he fought

Locked up in fancy

He spat on success

Centuries flowed, he stayed in stone sack

The blinding crystal was buried in haze

Time was just annual

Color in palette

The seas and the oceans were burned by his brush

He looked for the Ideal, he did not rush

Paints were blended

Canvas was primed...


He takes a brush, makes a touch

Values carefully the play

Once again he puts a paint

Look his eyes are casting sparks

He was waiting for this painting

All his life, through the ages

Wishes to reflect all fancies

And create a masterpiece

He draws loves, paints the hates

Smelts images all in one

Finds the hues and finds the shades

Finds the colors of the shine


He makes the faces cry and smile

Pushes the planets off in heat

Shuffles filings and the essences

In agony, in jest

He's creator of new worlds

Owns the secrets of the space

He conducts both peace and war

Dance of witches and the gods

But he'd never seen by himself

Even drop from the sea

Saw no nestlings, saw no winds

All his touches are fantasized


From the beginning to the end of his life

Poetry on canvas was what for he stride

He always kept silent, always delayed

Poor toy pedestal was in his breast

Noone could value his last masterpiece

Locked up in fancy, he spat on success

Centuries flowed, he stayed in stone sack

The blinding crystal was buried in haze

Time was just annual color in palette

The squalls and the storms and wild hurricanes

Fought on his new painting in agony

But he couldn't even smile to the sunshine...