in the morning you just wake up when that painter
splashes a swarm of green leaves
everyone of us we see the sun suspended in air
but not that painter
he insists on seeing it a ripe fruit
and so he paints on the citreous background
a strange perfume

when he turns mad and jumps on the sandbag to
the children crowd round and cheer
the painter draws a ripe grenade hanging from a
and he loudly proclaims to the multitude
everlasting peace
he also points out to everyone
a sunbaked corpse loitering on the fence
then he adds to it just a touch of remaining fresh

and when the blind bird is with child
he sketches on our eyes a pair of wooden crutches
and says here is enduring happiness
to illumine your blackened days

then the day we lie down
that painter again strokes a fresh green meadow
he says that’s a cool and comfortable bed
and every morning
he adds innumerable fragrant blossoms
as we start to forget to breathe little by little