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Whose brush could paint the golden morning clouds?
Emblazon setting skies a bold blood-red?
This silent Painter, through His strokes speaks loud
To wanderers who on new paths have tread.
The stunning peacock’s shining green-blue tail
And flames that live inside the tiger’s eye,
Are hues the Artist uses to unveil
Himself to some astonished passerby.
Each waterfall, each sturdy winding tree,
Suggests to one in gentle whispering
Someone beyond what human eyes can see,
Whose hands from which alluring beauty springs.
This silent Painter’s strokes shall never cease.
Our world is His eternal masterpiece.