The artist's brush is a magic wand
Breathing the spirit of a doting bond
Into the hushed motionless flatness
Of a dismal lifeless canvas.
The artist's brush has a mind of its own:
Gamely curves the line, twirls and goes on.
Hard to control, obstinate and bold
It splatters the fountain of gold.
The artist's brush ripples away with laughter
Reluctant to scribble the name of the drafter
And leaps to the centre of the playground
Anticipating another solo round.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem