(1881, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1841-1919)
Through the field of grass and trees,
colors and whispers abound within,
beyond the realm of any urban fare,
alone as man but one with nature,
a restful pressence eases my heart,
so fast it beats from life of the day,
that here is my requiem for a moment.
And so fast it beats with urgency,
torrents that sweep against the shore,
one of rocks and cliffs tower above,
so fragile it makes me feel,
close to broken I take care in my step,
a slip here could be a tragedy,
not a pleasant quietude of a meadow,
but a thunderous end in a storm.
Passing by a tranquility that resides,
here is where I wish was my home,
serene and inviting it welcomes me,
I assure it safe if I was to stay,
but it forewarns my life would ensue,
pervading and erasing the reason to come,
so leave life aside and be here alone.