A starry night he did proclaim
with hues and stokes so untamed,
he layed on with palette knife.

The twirls and swirls of gold
above the dormant village old,
despite his own inner strife.

Stars played cheerfully around,
restful hues on slumbering town
as though, sleeping with his wife.

While the sun awaited to arise
shadows of wheat black to his eyes,
he turned the heavens into wildlife.

Locked in his cold dismal room,
he painted not of his true gloom,
but of a dreamy, wonderous life.