The painters hands I saw
Were stained: the skin, all paint
And slender fingers bore
The imprint of his chore.
Upon that skin were lent
The colors of the sky
The beach, the sand, were rent;
The water, going by.
And by their shape and form
Another world is born:
The painters roving eye
Can never stop at sky.
to the muse..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem