Art covers up everything that we would like to do.
This is your painting. And here—over here—stands you.
To acquire that skill takes a certain amount of work.
You gave up. In your soul the lazy spirits lurk.
So this is your painting. It will depict you when you are dead.
And that is the point. You—over here—just want to be fed.
You allow dress-makers and stylists to decide
Thanks to your painting, what death will never hide.
You belong to nature, and nature seeks to make another,
But not you—you want no child to grow old like your mother.
You, yourself, are the beginning and the end,
The reason for art, and nobody’s friend.
