From the beginning to the end of his life
 Poetry on canvas was what for he stride
 He always kept silent
 Always delayed
 With eyes of a Virgin, the skin of a child
 In fancy he saw he did exploits, he fought
 Locked up in fancy
 He spat on success
 Centuries flowed, he stayed in stone sack
 The blinding crystal was buried in haze
 Time was just annual
 Color in palette
 The seas and the oceans were burned by his [bad word]  He looked for the Ideal, he did [bad word]  Paints were blended
 Canvas was primed... 

 He takes a [bad word]  makes a touch
 Values carefully the play
 Once again he puts a paint
 Look his eyes are casting sparks
 He was waiting for this painting
 All his life, through the ages
 Wishes to reflect all fancies
 And create a masterpiece
 He draws loves, paints the hates
 Smelts images all in one
 Finds the hues and finds the shades
 Finds the colors of the shine 

 He makes the faces cry and smile
 Pushes the planets off in heat
 Shuffles filings and the essences
 In agony, in jest
 He's creator of new worlds
 Owns the secrets of the space
 He conducts both peace and war
 Dance of witches and the gods
 But he'd never seen by himself
 Even drop from the sea
 Saw no nestlings, saw no winds
 All his touches are fantasized 

 From the beginning to the end of his life
 Poetry on canvas was what for he stride
 He always kept silent, always delayed
 Poor toy pedestal was in his breast
 Noone could value his last masterpiece
 Locked up in fancy, he spat on success
 Centuries flowed, he stayed in stone sack
 The blinding crystal was buried in haze
 Time was just annual color in palette
 The squalls and the storms and wild hurricanes
 Fought on his new painting in agony
 But he couldn't even smile to the sunshine...