The canvas becomes a stage.
I move around the surface with a withering manuscript and some notes that I never read.
I know this play, Ive been on this stage many times.
An improvised performance without audience.
I am all my passed ages.
The Old with his firm aestetichs yet full of doubt
The child free and naive
We play until the curtain fall
Tools becomes still and silent.
Only the old man’s question remains
Hanging in the air like an epilouge:
Did it come to life?