No idea have I to trust
In paintings designed on the asphalt,
Gathered step by step
By a notorious painter.
They are coloured according to his will,
With predictable answers,
Patterns of continuity.
Still sad I am
And I wonder what’s the purpose of being alive
In the world of deathly still paintings
Without having a painting of mine.
I’m not even a painter,
Therefore I think of going
To another place
To learn how to trust.