In every painting

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?