A painter with forks and knives
Cooks a canvas and depicts sea in the sky.
He confuses a scene but without a work dies
Brush and colors serve as metaphor
On sandy ways understanding a direction,
Where a guide falls and grumbles
As followers stab him and run away.
For there is no scene but disgust
A brush killed and colors darkened
In a messed up canvas without an angle
That gives a movement.
