In my yellow room,
Sunflowers with purple eyes stands out on a yellow background.
They bath their stems in a yellow pot, on a yellow table.
In a corner of the painting, the signature of the painter: Vincent.
And the yellow sun that passes through the yellow curtains of my room floods all this fluorescence with gold.
And in the morning upon awakening, from my bed,
I imagin that all this smells very good.
Oh yes! He loved yellow, this good Vincent, this painter from holland.
Those glimmers of sunlight rekindled his soul
That abhorred the fog, that needed the warmth.
When two of us were together in arles, both of us mad and at constant war over the beauty of color, me, i loved the color red,
Where to find a perfect vermilion?
He traced with his most yellow brush on the wall,
Suddenly turned violet.

Je suis saint esprit
Je suis sain d'espri.

Paul gauguin, 1894.

Soyez amoureuses vous serez heureuses

In the art of literature there are two contending parties. Those who aim to tell stories that are more or less well thought out, and those who aim at beautiful language, beauty of form. This contest may last a very long time; each side has a fifty-fifty chance. Only the poet can rightfully demand that verse be beautiful and nothing but.