On the lamina it hooves
The brush stirs it with magic
To fill with colors, comic and tragic
The dyes whisper to him
Through the Pierian Spring he has to swim
And he sees a yet unpainted vision
On the white paper
With mathematical precision
Images swirl in his mind
Getting more and more refined
The Muses inspire to create
Yet another masterpiece
Enchanting and great
Care not be it moral or immoral
Vespertine or auroral
Leave it to the gods to decide
An artist confined is as one who died
You do what you are told to do:
Paint yourself unto this sheet: construe!
And hide not good or evil
For there is no man without a devil
No prayer without a curse.
No prose without verse.
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