Painters house

Paris on the first day of summer 1943
A wide eyed young man on knees,
Arms draped over his brass balcony
From below, ribbons of light
Reflect the emotional currents of his sight

Old men gambling with a dusty deck
Shake their winning tins
In glory of the dancing girl
Her hair pinned back tight
Revealing porcelain skin

Every morning as sun would rise
Thus the dance begins
Watching her movement like a shimmering pearl
He paints on crumpled paper
The freedom of the spinning girl

The girl was of the dreaming sort
That gazed up to the sky
But Paris had
Much chimney smoke
That meant the stars were blind

Now the spinning girl lay bare and honest
His pallet of rouge in one hand
He painted with passion, the marks of life
That stained the paper
He had made by hand

Through the painters strokes
She found her escape
But only for a while
Her light was fading into darkness
No use to say goodbye

He was alone tossed on the floor,
His twisted figure lay in despair
For she was gone
Leaving stains of rouge
And charcoal strands of hair

Since that day, ahead of time in 1983
The small eyed man on aching knees
Clung to his brass balcony
From below, ribbons of light called him with a roar
The old man fell into their arms and he was then no more

Four empty rooms along the Seine
Now Linger, undiscovered
A painting hung on every space
The story of the lovers