a painter's morn...

the sky was still pink
the sun over the Eldo superstore
appeared like a float
and Amadore at his studio
drew...
the whole of the night he blew
into that painting...

il fiume...
(the river...)
and its bank
and a tree with the strongest trunk
and a woman sitting there
in white...her flowing hair
by the breeze of the morn
carrying a song...

the whole of the night he spent...
Amadore...as if he worked on
a dream God sent
and now when he had completed
the work...his eyes tired greeted
the round pinkish orangy float
over the Eldo superstore
across his flat at Monteoliveto...

the pigeons of Naples
had woken up sure...
he could hear their hopping sounds
on the stony pavement below...

A painter's night thus
come to a morning must
with il fiume del dolore...
through which he could to the millions say
his life had already become an art...
and he with the blessedness can never part...

Soon the day would come
with hurly burly noises some
but this morn will be for him the same
a morn of creative blessedness...

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