Vincent and I went for a walk

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.”





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