The canvas sits in expectation
Of gentle strokes with sable brush
Warm hand to channel the creation
Of beauteous blooms in colors lush
Ah, but the table sits in waiting
A little pile of pigment dust
To tempt the painter as if baiting
In flames of beauty to combust
Where are the paints, and where the painter
Why are those still lifes incomplete?
Each day my will and wish grow fainter
To face the task and sloth unseat
The canvas sits in expectation
Of gentle strokes with sable brush
Warm hand to channel the creation
Of beauteous blooms in colors lush.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem