The fireworks of people pass past his head,
He has no time to wonder what was said,
Collecting his hallow heavy possessions,
With no time to recognize depressions.

They shake his hand and beat him with the other,
A madness creeping like the memory of another,
They call it endless, he sees nothing but nothing,
And yet they keep calling themselves loving.

The similar friendly fellows slip away,
Amassing a gallery of paper, his paintings are no longer on display,
“a beauty to life” no longer has significance,
And the eyes of the people are led in a trance.

Stairs leading up, down and to the right,
To wonder what was left really requires sight,
A black background that everything wanders through,
It seems like you all know exactly what to do.

Compare your portrait to the mirror,
Make sure of not one error,
Countenance continuity,
Visions shouldn’t be compared to reality.