ART …
As a book I think myself
When gently you touch me,
A book you think you can read to the end
As you mark each page with curiosity.
A painting canvas I think of myself
Where you spread your fingers on me,
But still you need lots of rainbows,
To match my soul’s colors you cannot see.
If you’re Ulysses, eternal explorer,
I become for you a sheet music,
Don’t block the ears, instead of me
You hear soft voice of Mr. Cupid.
