He weeps and bleeds on paper, feeds on pain often.
He paints and faints on canvas, weeps with paint often.
The former is the poet, we say he is delirious.
The later is the painter, we say he is mysterious.
The poor souls are seen, to live penniless lives often.
He weeps and bleeds on paper, feeds on pain often.
He paints and faints on canvas, weeps with paint often.
Pictures on canvas or on paper aren't easy to conceive.
With sweat one writes, with blood one paints, I know, I believe.
Let us give them fullest regard, let our hearts bit soften.
He weeps and bleeds on paper, feeds on pain often.
He paints and faints on canvas, weeps with paint often.
His painful and hilarious songs make you sad, make you dance.
His pictures of love and passion fill you with romance.
The two are like breakable glass, handle them with caution.
He weeps and bleeds on paper, feeds on pain often.
He paints and faints on canvas, weeps with paint often.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great tribute to writers and painters.