Monet can't already see but
Still stubbornly paints his garden of wonders,
waterlilies, wooden bridge and wistarias,
Again and again,
Until he depicts only patches of lilac and blue
on the wind-torn canvas,
At the end of his rope he fights with weeds,
Then repaints that part of garden, and in that part the grand total,
Fights with colours, with the discomfort of passing away,
Invites Renoir, they two are in the garden now,
Both of them handicapped and blind in the shades of trees,
Listening to Bach -
And the moment they kept dreaming of is tenderly whispering about nothing,
Like a photo that had never been taken of them two -
The weight of nothing is levitating between their fingers.
Translation by Peter Szerdahelyi
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése