She comes through the painting Into this world Born and bred by colours With the light as her God
Following every move I make Every step I take is observed Killing my thirst of longing Far beyond the boundaries of death I'm running down a sunlit path Strengthened stroke by stroke The brush, creating lives It's like the hand of God
But this God is the pastureland of the weak Where we will never set foot Life's distorted by these low-minded Made into a dismal path Affection sinking below horizons of disgrace Subsequently dying, immersed in blackened ignorance The stench of sickening hypocrisy Hiding from the truth behind walls within Constantly reinforcing them in this world, this world of painters
In the arms of midsummer embrace I leave my body to the wilderness My thoughts they fall from grace To discover the secrets of nature In this world, this world of painters