| 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 |