The painting hanging above me,
it embodies the soul of a child.
I painted it with my hands.
The paint dried while I wept inside
at each drop of mortal sand.
My brother had nearly died three days before,
and suddenly,
all was possible.
Nothing was safe.
But I can do anything,
and the painting
is beautiful.
I am not an artist,
I am a messenger.
And my pain is lovely to human
re-ti-nas.
So I smear it around,
I make it go bye-bye
to say hello to the world
of art and critics.
Thank you.