A painter's painting

A painter, wrinkled and tired

Sighed a breathe of triumph-

“It’s the canvass that I’d ever brush up”

And a time that’ll ne’er come-

Fall passing to a naked tree

wearing the leaves amongst

the dancing flowers to the

joyful song of spring breeze

‘Tis captured at the will of strokes

And history shall remain the captive

On a canvass that’ll echo through ages.

Nature ruins and withers

But at its own spirit

Where the beauty that ensnared time

Shall wrinkle and fade

But at the caress of painter’s brush

Beauty shall always be celebrated.

For a picture with thousand words

A poet has retired to a painter.