A Painted Woman

A painted woman, warm and calm,
Folded hands upon black clothes.
A hidden smile, a shuttered look,
Shuttered she is but beautiful.

A thousand men in glance they gaze,
Immaculate it is, but left amaze...
Writers write of her,
Historians do their job.
Scientists are quiet, and poets sing.

Only an artist can say the truth of his art,
We cannot read his brains and heart.
Only an artist can sing of his art,
Only I can try to interpret...

While a painted woman sits,
Arms folded, and pain written upon an invisible smile...

Lisa Jaconde...
An image of a mother.