Epitoff

"Here he who played with art rests in peace,
he painted and poeticized until time took him away.
On the screen of life a trace of genius left,
but in death he made no impression.

"He lived on illusions, colors and words he cast,
in the world of mortals, eternity sought.
But what irony, on the cold stone rested,
where neither art nor verse will he save."

"Goodbye to the world that little understood me,
here I lie, artist, poet, a celestial vault.
My masterpiece? Maybe this tombstone is,
For in death, as in life, art is alien to us."