his life was his self portrait
he painted his portrait all his life
when he was young
when he was old
when he was happy
when he was gloomy
when healthy
when ill
spring
summer
autumn
winter
year after year
one night
he painted his own death
next morning
they found him dead
by that self protrait
of his own corpse
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem