Painter of The Inner Sun
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He walked with wheat fields in his hands, dust on his shoes, fire in his chest.
They called him mad, they called him poor, but he saw gold and yellow and blue.
He held his sorrow bigger than himself, loved it till it learned to breathe. He said suffering is small when your mind is vast and wide.
Oh, Vincent, you didn’t paint the night. You painted the light inside the night. You didn’t paint a flower. You painted the light that told it how to live.
Starry Night was not a sky. It was your prayer that couldn’t sleep. Sunflowers knew they would die, yet you taught them to look up.
Light does not argue with the dark. It just arrives. All things are born from that first light, the first light of the Creator, and you saw it.
Rest now, painter of the inner sun.
Your dream is still on the canvas.
Your light has only just begun…
TruongLe ZuGi 