Ruthless orb of light,
Barring darkness from the night.
Baking beaches, roasting roads,
Scorching mountains till they glow.
Frying forests, singeing skies,
Boiling rivers till they rise.
Even time seems to bleed
Like a melting Dali scene,
And the air begins to curl
Along with Escher's tilting world.
Would Van Gogh's flowers wane
Without a single drop of rain?
Would Klimt's fair ladies faint
In a set of dripping paint?
The artist must be cursed
To struggle with this constant thirst
And wander from the sheltered cave
To wrestle with this blinding blaze.