Van Gogh at ease-el, paint brush in hand,
preparing to stroke his way...
Lost in thought-Nothing to say.
Pondering if he should cut off his ear? ...
Is he filled with in-trepidation and fear?
Did his depression make him angry and mad? ...
Or possibly-way too sad?
He was in an insane asylum...
Later in his life-He was probably lucky-if
earlier, he had not thought of cutting
off a finger or thumb.
To end his life was he dumb? ...
Was his brain, as an intelligence,
in a high, or higher sum?
No-His common sense would not save him...
He died from a depressed and saddest whim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem