What is art? With what intention
does its maker make invention?
Is it old or is it recent,
overmagnified, indecent,
just a thing of passing fashion?
Truth is art's eternal passion;
nature is its primal source;
love of life its driving force.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The three last verses pen art's substance in so poetical a way.