I could not paint.
My brush lacks the color
Able to sustain
Your fine grace.
Can I reassess?
Another painting, perhaps?
The paper is still
Clear of scribblings.
Let me use my charcoal
From the ground, enveloped
With dust and mud
And congregate the elegance
Of your frame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem