I live my life on an impassioned sea.
It is my nature, falling, up and down.
But when I reach the crest, my spirit’s free;
In deepest sorrow sink, with valleys found.
The waves, they carry quickly dark and light
And I cannot but ride them, self and soul,
It isn’t choice that guides me—it is right
That mine, a life whose purpose, only role,
Is ever to create, expressing all
Of our existence, whether good or bad,
Extreme in lofty grandeur, or in small
And simple moments—all is to be had.
And who are you, monsieur, to question thus?
An artist has to feel, and so, I must.