My Portrait dedicated to O. Wilde

I tried to keep my breath when you were painting;
I watched your brush run to and fro, was waiting
For it to make a king from my plain features.
Your soul itself depicted those canvas creatures!
It's satisfaction to look at you creating: a stroke,
Then a moment's silence - another one that broke
My heart while laying it with paint. . .
Before I met you my image had been faint -
You have discovered me except one little thing -
The passion can't be painted! It's a string
Which plays in me and makes me laugh or cry.
Like needle piercing a trembling butterfly,
Its still alive, but dying in convulsions heart, -
So real life is always killed by brush of art.
Admiring, I'm frightened of the me you've made,
As if the canvas'd captured both my soul and fate. . .
The picture has tied up in one with its creator
My life as well, my image, me - the inspirator.
Which me is real now? I've lost my face and feeling. . .
While watching brush I realized the truth of being. . .

13. 03. 2001