Since the dawn of time, you endlessly work.
In the caves, torches lit up your hand,
In the marble where the first verses were engraved,
Born were the most perfect forms in the universe.

Zealous worker for those possessing,
Many times close to the great ones,
Quite a few times servile to tyrants,
But also a rebel so often.
From Zenon, silent martyr for his ideal,
To Courbet, fighting the Versaillais,
The artist rejects his pedestal
So as not to be down-classed to manservant.

Beyond the columns of the Government
The snoring favors and titles,
The yoke of grants and vile remuneration,
The gilding of official hovels,
The exasperation of the towns,
Anonymous, vulnerable artists,
Work alone in silence
To create in full consciousness.

Artist, my brother,
For your independence, pay the price,
Have no indulgence for the affluent,
Arm yourself with your contempt,
and do not despair...

© Michel Kisinis