The color of his garden started to change
as the Sun moved. Out in the plain air
the artist is upon some task, the artist
loses some of his sense. I hear the sentences
she speaks in the small room, her maroon lips
articulate the words, they shape the vowels
of her love. The forms of trees and rivers
give leaves and water grammar, I can see
the yellows and the greens, the soft-pink evening
reminds me of her folds. The quick impression
she leaves on my eyes! O lover I'm caught
by your flame like the moth! Release my self
from this gross body! He stood with the air
he painted and returned to senseless color.
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