Michelangelo Buonarotti dreamed his dreams and
painted them into a renaissance
of colourful shards. In a Sistine chapel, the dynamics
of ideas architectured, genius appended
as frescos on an overhead Roman manuscript,
his panelled spectrum of greatness.
Man rejoices at art as a connoisseur of vintage draft,
or as the pebbled dew on a morning leaf,
is exhilarated after dawn dies at
the ray's thrust of a helmeted sun.
Night is born from the scarlet carcass of the day
and the rolling hills seek its dark silence
as do the animals of the wild scape
and the artist. espoused to his wearied muse.
Yet the pregnant artist has no rest until
his bloated mind yields its masterpiece.
Then it cries
in a kaleidoscopic voice of art,
hieroglyphs leaping to life'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very colorfully, wonderfully descriptive. A painting in words. Don