Monet might have seen,
defiant to the last optics
fired out inevitably,
nerve light
made the more dipped,
smeared on clutched pallet,
bent to gaping will
struggling to open eyes
to w i d e r see.
Was failing him the light.
Closing-in world reduced to all horizon.
Tints, brushes, memory
frame final pieces
canvased, inwardly conformed,
recalled light more light than all raw day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem