An Artist

It’s midnight –
Outside, autumn shivers.
Inside, inspiration is wide awake.
Burning and urgent, facing the easel –
A gaunt old artist, as thin as a rake.
 
On and on, marrying night to the dawn,
Painting the same work again and again.
The light stays on in this shabby garrett
In a shabby city, as dirty as rain.
 
No-one else yet knows his name.
For the world he continues a perfect blank
While in here he talks to his colours alone.
He paints… he paints – his only thanks.
 
On, he dips in his brush for the night,
On, he dips in his brush for blood,
On, he dips in his brush for the world
With no knowledge of the colours it had.
 
He paints and paints, without any rest –
His hands with the skill of Picasso move.
For him it Is never in everyday life
But in his paint he finds the joy of love.
 
As he paints, he sees a lovely girl
While the city consoles itself in sleep –
Pouring his whole soul on to the canvas
Until his work ends with the night’s deep.
 
It’s dawn –
Outside,
autumn
shivers…