| A blank canvas is the widest place
|
| Where the whole art is standing still
|
| The sky — to give shape to a masterpiece
|
| Is full — I need the artist’s mystic will
|
| Of flaming darkness
|
| To make choices, my sacred toil
|
| To create life, colours, greatness
|
| To reveal riches, our decaying spoil
|
| My artwork were to be the universe
|
| My artwork were to be this twisted universe
|
| To draw life, the most supreme
|
| All wrong, a blind paint stream
|
| No life, in a black canvas
|
| There is no chance to pray and cleanse
|
| The work of art now lives in dark
|
| Dying planets and black blood
|
| Created by a failing God
|
| Here life is to float
|
| In a gout of black
|
| Guessing it is the universe
|
| Mankind — to make the brush a fecund place —
|
| Was born — to let flow the masterpiece —
|
| Of black — the whole art keeps standing still
|
| To perish in darkness
|
| To make choices, my sacred toil
|
| To create life, colours, greatness
|
| To reveal riches, our decaying spoil
|
| To draw life, the most supreme
|
| I need the perfect stroke
|
| But the brush streamed spurts of black
|
| And the spell broke
|
| There will be no life in a black canvas |