The Artist Poem by Patrick Dennis
The Artist
She paints with a rich blend of natural ochre
and the heavenly colours of sifted grace;
and like a child she follows on the woven fabric
the faint trace of a form divine by the dark light in a winter stable.
What we call art - poetry, music, tricks of sight -
are rough copies of strange masterpieces
too subtle for human sight, and eyes that cannot see
divine faint smudges of caressing hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/21/2024 8:13:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
