Midday in the piazza,
nobody comes,
the tourists are all eating lunch.
I live for my art,
I'm burning - especially in this hot sun -- for my art,
and for what?
My financial umbrella is shrinking rapidly,
just like the ozone layer,
and even when they do come,
they do not buy.
Perhaps I should fold my easel
and walk away.
But what will happen
to all the unborn images
in my heart?
* * *
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