July Picture

The Moon's disc of an orange colour an' unmoved clouds look like a fringe – there hangs a July midnight picture and twinkles on the walls the dark. Where are you, our unseen artist? While never-ending supplication you put a canvas on your easel, unheard invisible creator. You're here after day's disorder establish beauty in the world – you ever take bright colours softly and throw them into emptiness. As if it is a fortune's hostage – a prisoner waits for his death – at the eternity there stands the tripod, there shines the Moon, and wax there burns.