From an attic room in a tiny inn, an artist works.
His canvas faces windows that open west,
His eyes are lions hunting,
He uses his paintbrush the way a hunter wields a spear.
The sun is setting, light wanes,
But in this dusky corner of the inn
Light is made stronger by the ensuing night.
Like a flood of water, darkness tries to fill the room.
This man fights the grim tide
He defies a constant pain,
(bleeds not blood, but copious paint)
With brushes and colors and canvas,
Arena gladiator
He battles an encroaching gloom,
Sunflower yellow
Cobalt blue
Persian green,
He delays the approach of doom.
Thirty-seven.
In a straw hat
Limping with a case under each arm
Ear bandaged tightly,
Red whiskers bristling
He is a general marching to a new hill.
Every hour,
Binocular eyes survey terrain
Dart but give expert glances,
While his hand dashes and dabs with the horsehair tip.
The sky is captured by handfuls
Pinioned by nails of brilliant green
While flowers weep crimson amid the grain.
Deep ocean blue, heavy clouds,
Black-slash crows loudly warn of a final storm.
Desolation of endless fields
Ripened wheat,
Restless music of eternal yield,
Troubled skies and worried eyes
A tall figure walks with a scythe.
Thirty-seven.
He watched the sun that afternoon.
It was flung fire that stuck to a shattered mirror,
Radiated lines of molten stress that eclipsed the natural grandeur of the world,
Echoed like a gunshot in the hallways of his mind.
The trees were cast in livid flames that burned a jungle green
But they whispered in tongues of smaller, silent blue.
Everywhere there was a finality of spectrum that defied scientific hue.
Late afternoon,
July 27, 1890
He stood at his window and looked out.
The sun was a drop of melting gold
Dripped like a lump of butter
Gliding down the drooping ceiling of the sky.
He saw a reaper pacing in the sea of wheat
Moving in slow circles
While stalks fell in spiral patterns at his feet.
Death came in sunlight
Not in fear
Nor in darkest night.
There was no sunset
Just a cycle,
An assemblage of unceasing seasons
Passages that led to passages.
Months compounded into years
Years expanded into decades;
Souls were linked to souls,
While these souls were linked to more souls.
A hundred paintings
A thousand paintings,
Across the years, a never-ending progression.
Seasons, souls, and painting,
Constant cycle of creation and dissipation,
But never a cessation, a final destination.
Thirty-seven.
He experienced a realization
Similar to the one with the knife and the tip of his ear,
But this was different, it was an internalization,
It came from within, came without external provocation.
He had made hundreds of paintings,
Created windows into brilliant worlds
Altered mundane reality.
But these were just representations,
Images etched on dragonfly wings that trembled in the wind.
He would make a sunset.
He would make an end.
The wheat would fall, it would not grow again.
Thirty-seven.
He set his brushes in order,
Put the letter to his brother in his pocket,
Looked one last time at his favorite chair,
Closed the door, with his key he locked it.
Walked along the road in summer,
The revolver with its bullets was heavy in his pocket.
He chose the field from a week ago
He had painted a sullen sky that draped the world in iron folds,
Black crows flew low over barren fields, and a storm was coming on.
Today it was a bleak afternoon,
The sky had no ceiling and the earth was an empty room.
The sun was a glowing copper coin,
There was the sound of wind in the grass.
He looked at it all,
His artist's brain captured the scene as he might paint it:
He was the focal point,
A stark, standing figure facing a field of wheat,
The sun hung in a sky of brushed bronze with blue flecks.
But this was not a painting he would make.
He closed his eyes-
"No more!", he said to the wheat.
To the sun and sky, he announced,
"I will not be sad!"
He gripped the gun,
Felt a strange exhilaration
Flung it upwards to his chest
Pulled the trigger.
There was a sound,
It came from close, but seemed to echo from far away.
Thirty-seven.
Stunned he sat there,
His eyes were open, his ears were ringing
No pain, just a cold feeling in his side.
The grass was soft under him,
But the earth felt like it was tilted,
Rolling like a ball down a hill.
The revolver was on the ground, away from him,
Shining metal against tangled weeds.
He looked at his hand,
There was blood on it, and his blood was bright red.
Suddenly he was lying on his back, looking up.
Through the brown summer haze,
He saw the sky had streaks of pale blue
Like an old woman's veins,
Dabbed with long strands of pulled cotton clouds
They rippled across the tall dome overhead.
The sun was bright in his eyes,
He was thirsty for water.
Heavy grains of ripened wheat bobbed and dangled in the wind,
Made shadows on his face.
He looked at the sun, the sky, the wheat;
Shook his head.
"No," he whispered, "no."
"La tristesse durera toujours."
"This sadness will never end."
Thirty-seven.
His canvas faces windows that open west,
His eyes are lions hunting,
He uses his paintbrush the way a hunter wields a spear.
The sun is setting, light wanes,
But in this dusky corner of the inn
Light is made stronger by the ensuing night.
Like a flood of water, darkness tries to fill the room.
This man fights the grim tide
He defies a constant pain,
(bleeds not blood, but copious paint)
With brushes and colors and canvas,
Arena gladiator
He battles an encroaching gloom,
Sunflower yellow
Cobalt blue
Persian green,
He delays the approach of doom.
Thirty-seven.
In a straw hat
Limping with a case under each arm
Ear bandaged tightly,
Red whiskers bristling
He is a general marching to a new hill.
Every hour,
Binocular eyes survey terrain
Dart but give expert glances,
While his hand dashes and dabs with the horsehair tip.
The sky is captured by handfuls
Pinioned by nails of brilliant green
While flowers weep crimson amid the grain.
Deep ocean blue, heavy clouds,
Black-slash crows loudly warn of a final storm.
Desolation of endless fields
Ripened wheat,
Restless music of eternal yield,
Troubled skies and worried eyes
A tall figure walks with a scythe.
Thirty-seven.
He watched the sun that afternoon.
It was flung fire that stuck to a shattered mirror,
Radiated lines of molten stress that eclipsed the natural grandeur of the world,
Echoed like a gunshot in the hallways of his mind.
The trees were cast in livid flames that burned a jungle green
But they whispered in tongues of smaller, silent blue.
Everywhere there was a finality of spectrum that defied scientific hue.
Late afternoon,
July 27, 1890
He stood at his window and looked out.
The sun was a drop of melting gold
Dripped like a lump of butter
Gliding down the drooping ceiling of the sky.
He saw a reaper pacing in the sea of wheat
Moving in slow circles
While stalks fell in spiral patterns at his feet.
Death came in sunlight
Not in fear
Nor in darkest night.
There was no sunset
Just a cycle,
An assemblage of unceasing seasons
Passages that led to passages.
Months compounded into years
Years expanded into decades;
Souls were linked to souls,
While these souls were linked to more souls.
A hundred paintings
A thousand paintings,
Across the years, a never-ending progression.
Seasons, souls, and painting,
Constant cycle of creation and dissipation,
But never a cessation, a final destination.
Thirty-seven.
He experienced a realization
Similar to the one with the knife and the tip of his ear,
But this was different, it was an internalization,
It came from within, came without external provocation.
He had made hundreds of paintings,
Created windows into brilliant worlds
Altered mundane reality.
But these were just representations,
Images etched on dragonfly wings that trembled in the wind.
He would make a sunset.
He would make an end.
The wheat would fall, it would not grow again.
Thirty-seven.
He set his brushes in order,
Put the letter to his brother in his pocket,
Looked one last time at his favorite chair,
Closed the door, with his key he locked it.
Walked along the road in summer,
The revolver with its bullets was heavy in his pocket.
He chose the field from a week ago
He had painted a sullen sky that draped the world in iron folds,
Black crows flew low over barren fields, and a storm was coming on.
Today it was a bleak afternoon,
The sky had no ceiling and the earth was an empty room.
The sun was a glowing copper coin,
There was the sound of wind in the grass.
He looked at it all,
His artist's brain captured the scene as he might paint it:
He was the focal point,
A stark, standing figure facing a field of wheat,
The sun hung in a sky of brushed bronze with blue flecks.
But this was not a painting he would make.
He closed his eyes-
"No more!", he said to the wheat.
To the sun and sky, he announced,
"I will not be sad!"
He gripped the gun,
Felt a strange exhilaration
Flung it upwards to his chest
Pulled the trigger.
There was a sound,
It came from close, but seemed to echo from far away.
Thirty-seven.
Stunned he sat there,
His eyes were open, his ears were ringing
No pain, just a cold feeling in his side.
The grass was soft under him,
But the earth felt like it was tilted,
Rolling like a ball down a hill.
The revolver was on the ground, away from him,
Shining metal against tangled weeds.
He looked at his hand,
There was blood on it, and his blood was bright red.
Suddenly he was lying on his back, looking up.
Through the brown summer haze,
He saw the sky had streaks of pale blue
Like an old woman's veins,
Dabbed with long strands of pulled cotton clouds
They rippled across the tall dome overhead.
The sun was bright in his eyes,
He was thirsty for water.
Heavy grains of ripened wheat bobbed and dangled in the wind,
Made shadows on his face.
He looked at the sun, the sky, the wheat;
Shook his head.
"No," he whispered, "no."
"La tristesse durera toujours."
"This sadness will never end."
Thirty-seven.
