The painter drowned himself in the oil by being engaged in his passion,
the painter drowned himself in the oil between portraits and foliage.
Under the magnificences alizarines
with which he adorned his wrack,
he sank into his painting,
we say that he touched the bottom.
Your glance cherishing its painting leaves on its soul a shiver,
its emotions strew with stars
each of the walls of your house.
Due to crunching wings,
bodies, hearts and little faces,
due to being in love with Them,
he succumbed to the enjoyment.
His earth of his burned
by its evanescent furies
gives to its unfinished work
an impertinent fragrance.
When he was a watercolorist,
he consumed only some water, but the painter is an anarchist who beats the iron to be hot.
Between carmine and blue of the see, he enjoys waters of Léthé,
to protect him from the hell,
never stops loving him.
In the heart of your nights opalines,
if your dreams become beautiful,
it is the painter, on your retina,
who lets dance his brush.
It will there remain for ever,
drinker of hope, to croqueur of envy, giving its colors in the Amur
to make iridescent all your life.
In the oil, the painter poured,
eater of the moon, he sank,
between dream and reality,
towards his sea of tranquillity.
