a real friend I wouldn't have painted for him
a mural on canvas the memories of childhood;
to friends happiness is shared, and the more
they do, the more it multiplies -
the essence of friendship, its soul.
So I thought.
And night and day, happy with the thought,
I labored sweetly with the sunlight of Amorsolo,
the warm color of the earth of Rembrandt,
passion of Van Gogh and simplicity of Cezanne,
and the purity of colors of an amateur.
I talked to the canvas, and it talked to me;
and the past heard us - childhood is alive:
the stream meanders to the sea,
the hills glow at sunrise and sunset,
trees quiver with birdsong and breeze;
herons come to herald the Amihan
the wind that carries our kite high up,
up until the clouds break into rain,
and fish stir seeking the source of spring -
then, summer is gone.
Everybody seeks that freshness
that lightning and thunder bring,
to learn from nature, to temper the senses -
lessons I learned early and carried on in life.
Yes, my friend will like my painting, I said,
for he loved things real, things original.
That was long, long time ago;
I lost a friend and a masterpiece. ~