By French painter Hugues Merle.

The rage in her eyes and the decision of her gaze, 

Fulfilled me with a profound sadness  

Are we guilty of perpetual sin because of our humanness?  

Aren’t they exceptions depending on the case?  

I see the spring of her gracious face flourish,  

I admire the summer on her apple red lips,  

I also see her autumn like expressions astonish  

All the grazers in their winter like dreams  

The fruit of her love clings to her breast for dear life,  

The mother clings to the child for dear redemption,  

She is a symbol of human imperfection, 

We live like immortals and believe a huge lie  

We are as ephemeral as a sigh  

What is the point of the extreme morality?  

Can’t we accept that our passions outweigh our conscience?  

She is a symbol of human imperfection  

We desire the drama that lights up our insignificant existence  

Why do we try to isolate our remorse if it will be near anyway?