When I put away my artifices and lovingly arrange in a corner all my toys,
images and phrases,
so dear to me I feel like kissing them,
then I become so small and innocuous,
so alone in a room so large and sad,
so profoundly sad.
I’m astounded whenever I finish something.
But when art,
instead of being understood as creation,
became merely an expression of feelings,
then anyone could be an artist,
because everyone has feelings.
Its blue was sometimes lighter,
from the lofty colour’s own lack of substance.
Have you ever considered,
how invisible we all are to each other? Have you ever thought
about how little we know each other? We look at each other without seeing.
Nor even those of a contented man,
which are the ones that count when the others are missing.