Can I be as beautiful as the Mona Lisa?
Draped in blue like Margarita Teresa?
My features soft and kind
A nature so mature and polite

Can I have a man who paints
Relaxed and focused before the flames,
With hands stained by strokes of time
With a passion for hues and rhymes?
  
He will paint me slow and detailed-
Mouthless, faceless, truly changed
He spends hours perfecting my ears
He never talks when he concentrates.

With every stroke, he paints hues
purple, red, and a touch of blue
He invents new colors, studies the anatomy
Counts the bones inside the knee

He learns the composition.
bends me into a new position.
A new art form now
Realistic, still unrecognized.

For while I am sitting in my chair
He selects shades for my hair
I am now framed and proud
Worthy of being fawned about

When his masterpiece is complete
Mourns then moves to new conceits
Hung in the Louvre—by my neck, pale and still
A brushstroke by his graceful will

You will know me by my mystery smile.
Find recognition of me in his style
I can be viewed now through his lens
More of an art and less a self.