At night
van gogh’s cat hunts
beneath the swirling green flame
of a lone cypress
that casts flickering moonshadows
over a field of slouching sunflowers
until dawn explodes in psychedelic smears
of molten orange
& blood red
then leaping lightly through the window
he curls up on the crooked bed
that huddles against the wall
of vincent’s narrow, blue room
in Arles
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delightfully fine scene painting. That's exactly the world I would envision for Van Gogh's pet. One question though, did Vincent brush the cat with a palette knife?