How kind seem now
Those Brooklyn days:
The studio light
Dimmed mid-day;
The tiring nude's
Peak out a window
Eyes guarded, lewd,
A life in limbo;
The clay, the paint,
The books, the dust,
The photographs,
The naked lust;
The friends, their noise,
Their eager laughter,
The spider webs,
The threaded rafters;
Those times are gone,
But Art remains,
To prove that we
Were not insane.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sounds like the good ol' days to me! Nicely done!