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About This Poem
The Old Painter
THE OLD PAINTER
sublime my paintings, memory be
lost in time, I now must see
where once the gale winds trembled chill
wrapped in blankets, remember still
a touch, a kiss, the summer sun
from deep within, must now be spun
I frolic to and fro in time
my brush, alas..... can only mime
I still can hear cicada's whine
but yearn for yellow celandine
tho memories fade, my spirit thrives
aflush! my paintings will survive!
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