Put up the canvas, Vincent! A moon shall bloom
As this desperate evening grows
Let the brushes put on a symphony soon
And whisper this color to the yonder willow’s toes.
Hundred arts could I sacrifice;
thousands death shall my poetry die.
Colors on palette shall perish
while my muse would try
to punctuate the couplet that completes us
across oceans that are wide;
wider are the dreams when you ponder
“Ready the horses, Vincent. Woods are dark
and alone shall not my poetry wander.”