Whitish - red, blue and the gray;
black mix here and there,
the Artist's mind roves,
the moving canvas, modernist strokes,
unfinished but a beauty to behold.
Crimson lines, faded and short,
night is young, His girl wild;
the lover's lips will fill the rest.
The disc's on, rolling beats;
disco lights and party raves.
Spilt paint on the floor,
his tongue mopping every ounce of juice.
Light's out, but life's not;
mix and birth, beauty of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem