If you can see sanguinity
When the pages are rinsed in ink,
When happiness is replaced with bereavement,
When the world hollers in reverberating pangs,
You are an artistic mind.

If you can listen,
Music when people vociferate,
Colours walking on the canvas overlooking a sight grey,
Sprightly green leaves thrusting upon your feet in a barren land,
You are an artistic mind.

If you can weave,
A cloth with neither needle nor thread,
A chestnut colour with gravel black,
A dream amid fallow hopes dug in the grave,
You are an artistic mind.

If you can cry,
When people eulogise or squander you,
When the grass blades slit your throat or fondle your feet,
When dew drops come and go,
You are an artistic mind.