Were I an artist as snow fell upon the poor,
the poor in spirit, poor in heart, I would catch
each shiver, each jaw chattering hunger pain.
Of course I will feed you, give you warmth
with each brush stroke, but I cannot paint your death.
It would be hypocrisy to paint the downtrodden.
Just who do you think you are? Are you the painter
with no ear? No, no my friend, you are the painter
with no heart and eyes that cannot see.