Mistral stirs up the wavering wheat field
A frenzy of crows are buffeted there
A storm is approaching; a cauldron of weather.
A murder of black birds are moved by the air.
The canvas is caught by the sighs of the planet.
It billows and fills as the paint is applied.
The heat of the meadow will all be forgotten
when thunder clouds break and the storm has arrived.
Into the distance my path winds to its finish,
short of the three score and ten you had planned.
Your harbingers call me away to my future
to put down my paintbrush and dance with the damned.