I've once seen people go in and out
of that beautiful gallery throughout

Awed with it's glittering splendor,
their eyes in a deep surrender

There stood a magnificent picture,
As if it was bathed in golden glitter
They'd always stop by to give it a praise
They would stand in front of it for days

For it was a painting wonderfully made,
Fine strokes of brush with marvelous shade

There it spoke only one language:
Perfection; an old dialect and adage

The people presented were curiously happy.
A child, an adult, fighting over candy
As the others just watched and laughed
Their joyously gay craft

The artist never thought of a glimpse of sorrow
Heck, the worst thing there was an unearthly wallow

And of course everything was accompanied by an aesthetic hue,
Colors that somehow don't know the word: adieu

But somehow I never seem to be amazed
of that painting people always crazed
For only I can see what it really is:
A picture no less than ****

They see fine strokes
When I see it in smokes

They see a marvelous shade
While I see a boring cascade

I beg them to give the gallery reprieve
But they never listen, they never leave

For I can see the colors dying
Yet why won't they start crying?
But I can't blame them for what they say,
Only I can see that picture fading away...