It is the ultimate paradox,
That an artist will face,
The wish to close himself off,
To write about this place.
The painter will climb the windswept hill,
To paint the village far below,
Yet in truth, there is more of life to be found,
In the hustle and bustle, banter of the town.
We artists do not like the noise and chaos,
It distracts, it confounds, it depraves us,
Out there is the true essence of existence,
Beyond the commonplace, beyond the masses,
On the deserted shores, the secluded mountains.
The poet will trek deep into the forest,
To capture that feeling that runs deepest,
Far from the one that drives him,
To hang upon her every whim.
Perhaps we must escape and center ourselves,
To what passions burn within our souls,
For Beethoven, who took solace in the trees,
And spent among the singing birds hours untold,
Wrote nine great symphonies.