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He was a painter of love,
with brushes of passion,
he created a world on his canvas
where his heart dwelled.
With each stroke, a look,
with each colour, a sigh,
on the palette of his days,
she was the sun that looked at him.
His love, a burning fire,
a landscape of tenderness,
where the sky melted
with the notes of his madness.
He painted her laughter in oil,
with shadows of an eternal desire,
and on the canvas of his dreams,
she was his only winter.
He was a painter of love,
his art, a subtle song,
leaving in each brushstroke
the essence of a feverish love.