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painter's brush
Sitting on my bed
My hands on the keyboard
I turn my head on the left
And there …through the window
What beautiful scenery.
What shall I write?
I am thinking
Just what you see
I type…
Tic Tic Tic…
Two red brick houses
And then three beige brick houses
No! Four
No! More. If I incline my head,
A little on the right,
I can see many more.
Tic Tic Tic…
Houses, cars, white windows everywhere
Colors, black, white, grey, dark olive, red and blue
Nature, dead trees, blooming trees, dancing green trees
A flying flag, flowers, dead grass, green grass
And on top of it all
Roofs and deep blue sky
Not a single cloud.
Beauty, peace, serenity
But from where I am sitting
It is as though I am looking at a painting
A beautiful painting,
Still, when my eyes can’t catch a movement
Lively, depending on the whim of the wind
Which is like the flying brush of the painter
That adds a touch here and there
But isn’t part of the scenery
And as I contemplate the view
And feel the peace
But can’t touch the scenery,
Nor hear the sound of the wind,
Nor smell the flowers, the trees…
I yearn and wish I could be part of it all
But I can never and will never be
I am just like a tourist contemplating
A million dollar painting at the museum.
Or simply like myself,
Sitting on my bed
My hands on the keyboard
Incapable of being at two places at the time
Incapable of being the contemplator and the contemplated
Incapable of adding a new element in the scenery I described earlier
Just like a painter’s brush would do
Without creating a totally different scenery
Adding new words and changing the poem altogether.
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