I would like to be a painter
to paint her beauty,
her eyes, a sky in bloom,
her laughter, sweet certainty.
But as I am a writer
with words I trace kisses,
in verses with great fervour,
their nobility I confess.
Each stanza a banner,
each rhyme, a whisper,
her being is my work of art,
in life, its murmur.
Muse of inspiration,
in these verses I find you,
whether I am a painter or a writer,
your beauty is my centre.