In full swing
That man there, in full swing, has never
learnt anything else than to do what he does.
What he must do. He saw that well, the onlooker.
He already suspected it when young: your youth is
never large enough. The creative urge? Check.
The heat of young blood? Check. He stuck to
his guns. He wanted to get away from sheer white
and black. Wished for the vast secrets
of song-thrush-egg-blue and sunflower-yellow.
For the rough idiom of forgotten sermons.
He already knew early on, and lived accordingly:
it makes no sense to dig in lifeless fields.
Drawing by Vincent van Gogh
(Omtrent Vincent, Pien Storm van Leeuwen, p. 98)
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