I have tried to paint her face from memory
but no success has come in capturing
the ghost that lights the lamp inside her eyes;
the contours worm in their fragile mapping,
no pigment crushed for paints expel such dyes.
A work of art stems from the inner eye,
but no seed or stem of art contains the sap
from which grows the fruit of living day;
and who am I that dare to touch or tap
the ghost within her smooth and milky clay?