He didn’t know it at the time
His life existed in poverty and grime
The only way he could survive
Was at the age of thirty-five

To create a painting of a sulfur-colored sun
In an air of pure cobalt to show everyone
That he still could create an eternity
With the deafening silence of taciturnity

Just two years before his dying day
While enjoying a Beaujolais
He gave us a magnificent treasure
That centuries later we still have the pleasure

To experience the pain of the sunflowers
That he painted in the small hours
Of his ever-decreasing life
He finally quit the long-drawn strife

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