Birth of a Story
The night of a primitive storm sad yellow leaves
Fall from the lips of a feverish woman;
As the sleeping city steams beneath a hairy old blanket
An old, hunched-over artist searches for colour, solitude, brush. Heating barley the city upends its gruel pot to dry
The lightning's quicksilver slips down the thermometer
A thick oaten-storm rises on the sky's wondrous easel–
Flawless leaves drift down from bare-headed branches!
Like an old rat on the tin sheets of the storm's fury
Ceaselessly I daub paint, bring forth green shoots
All yellow fades, green is inscribed everywhere
The sick woman smiles dazzlingly at cock-crow dawn. Even as the last leaf falls our art begins
In last-gasp death's soul afresh arises green!
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