Ira.

You clean white canvas.

I paint colorful.

Sometimes we move the position.

We fixed up deficiencies.

We paint the morning.

Same as yesterday.

I make pictures.

You give color.

Tomorrow.

You create an image.

I give color.

We gave birth to thousands of hand painting.

Millions of colors.

This day.

We arrange the paintings in the museum.

The built tears and laughter echoes.

I’m not the canvas or paint.

So do you.

You walk into the hall orange.

Befriend the moon and the smell of rubber.

Ira.

Your bag filled with tears.

You want to turn into gems.

At the next island.

I arrange rocks so the palace.

In the beloved homeland.

Tomorrow.

When your pockets full of jewels.

My palace stands majestically.

Come!

We visit our museum.

Sit holding hands.

Our eyes are myopic.

But.

Our hearts remain bright.

We paint again.

You canvas.

I paint it.

The painting will hang us

At the last place.