The master sat on his stool, his paint with him.
The colors were handpicked by the master’s hand,
and the canvas was spread out before him.
The blue was a true one, from the sky.
The red, a heart that is bleeding,
The pink, a love that won’t die.
The black, a night without an ending.
And all the other colors, from the finest
of the stars commingled with his suffering.
Matched by the orchestra that plays in his heart,
now, his baton must sway with his feelings.
But alas, oh, the lady was fading,
and no color can restore what is going — is gone.
The master sat on his stool with the most beautiful colors
to paint a memory.
Last revised 19 September 2010