If I would be a painter,
I would paint a portrait
Of an old man.
I would paint his skin with the bronze colors,
For everyone to see the years, he spent under the sun.
With the darker colors I would draw deep lines
Over his forehead. I would paint his eyes
With light brown background, and yellow twinkles
Darting silent wisdom around the black pupils.
I would paint half of a grim and half of a smile over his lips,
Wounded by grief and thirst. I would paint a beauty
In his fingers with broken fingernails, filled by dirt,
Holding a wooden stick for a cane.
I would paint snow in his shoulder length hair
And his beard, long and tangled.
I would paint his feet into the dust of the road,
And his clothes in fading colors,
Old and ripped, like his life. And I would paint the sun
Above his head: hot and glorious, and limited in its immortality.

If I were be a painter, and finished my painting,
I would wash my hands and look at the portrait,
Until tears start to roll from my eyes.