There is a moment brief in time
too small to comprehend
when change occurs and layers shift
and what was comes to end
That moment can't be held or grasped
or measured by fine tools
it has no name no game no fame
no size no depth no rules
A painter sometimes feels inside
when finishing a scene
that extra perfect master's touch
has left the work demeaned
If only he had stopped in time
he would have saved much toil
but that small instant was ignored
and left the painting spoiled
Few are the masters through all time
that stopped before that point
and so today we love and view
those works that time anoints
There is a moment brief in time
too small to comprehend
when change occurs and layers shift
and what was comes to end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem