On the blue canvas were the latest strokes of brush
In Red, Cyan and blue
Touching it were the birds flying hush
The same my heart was trying to do.

The strokes are now diffused by the wind
The blue canvas is now ready for a fresh paint
Grey was all it got
For there were rainy clouds in the lot.

The clouds are emptied soon
Towards the far fields they drifted apart
To only return for the same art.

The sun setting in the corner of the sky
Fills it with crimson as it goes by
The clouds are pushed
The noises hushed
The canvas is all ready for the moon
Who was waiting to color it soon.