He mixes the paint so carefully,
Always the perfect shade,
A new color discovered every day
Only he sees the mistakes he made.
Painting with such desire as he,
No one; not ever seen before
Such an intensity brought to the canvas,
It seems he thinks of nothing more.
My father, my teacher, my forever friend
He knows not how much he means to me
I try to express what I feel with paint,
But my work is never as good as it can be.
I strive to be perfect with every stroke,
Each color, each shade, each hue
He reminds me. 'Nothing is perfect.'
'Except, side by side, me painting with you.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Touching if I may say so. Perfection's a good place to aim though...