Your genius is spilling over with radiance:

the vividness of shade, and tone, and shapes.

Your sculptures are perfection we admire.

You practice every break between the sun

and moon’ dispute, to soothe the old star’s fire.

Oh, hear-say: each time your restless brush

remains intact- a symphony of draft

among your craft is spun in mayhem play:

the bare branches, banded to the ground,

provoke a sound of drums, enhanced with extra zing

of the trembling violin, accompanying the wind.

Your passion stirs the surge of a thousand waters.

And then again- is peace!

And then again- is beauty!

So, what am I in this magnificent rostrum?

-A short time traveler, observer, witness;

experiment, explorer, is there more?

We live in tangled symbioses and I am yours to mingle.

With all the brilliance your colors linger,

can you make me, once more, younger?

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