In his vision

The whole universe

Is a blank canvas;

And his soul flows

Into his fingers.

In his ecstasy,

He passionately mixes

Simple, blind pigments,

And with an artless brush

He creates again

The paradise he has lost.

In his divine art

The trees and flowers

In their beauty and charm

Rise above the work

Of dumb Nature,

For they grow and bloom

Out of his dreams.

In exile on Earth,

By taking precedence

Over God's creation

Perhaps he wants to forget

The Garden of Eden.

Yet, sometimes, when he looks

At a white lily,

Or a stately oak,

He feels he is lost

And wants to cry.

To hear the melodies

Of his thoughts and dreams,

He creates his own

Graceful songbirds

With wood and metal;

And when they sing,

God listens in wonder,

And all the angels

Go into rapture,

And lose their innocence.

Yet, sometimes, when he hears

The simple song

Of a willow warbler,

Or a blue tit,

He feels he is lost

And wants to cry.

Sitting in silence,

And sunk in sorrow,

He has forgotten

His own image.