The painter

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...