The earth is the last painting this artist
Will stroke, with a tender flick of my wrist
She comes to life. Each day humanity
Strays further away; Christianity
Seeks to answer the vision of mankind,
All this I painted, yet still they are blind.
From where they came they seem never to know,
For what they came, I try daily to show.
I’ve made the picture form under the brush,
Colors form questions; form logic; form lush
Depictions of what I wish they would see;
All-knowing, yet the one who’s blind must be me.
Must I create, wonder, paint, to prove my existence
To myself with a Godly persistence?
I will, I say; I do, to my dismay,
And I paint the world on the seventh day.
And so the earth is my last painting. This
Artist will stroke the sky, wishing for bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.