.
Monet might have seen,
giving darkness in Giverny,
defiant to the last optics fired out inevitably,
nerve light made the more dipped,
smeared on clutched pallet bent to his gaping will
struggling to open eyes
the wider see.
Was failing him the light.
Closing-in world reduced to all horizon.
Tints, brushes, memory
frame these final pieces
canvased, inwardly conformed,
recalled light more light than all raw day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem