"A Kinder Eye" by Level 42

In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of
light
he lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life
his speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both
grace and speed
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and
bring his tea

To the world he was the Master, his landscapes filled the
gallery halls
but now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private
walls
subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft
refrain
a thousand forms and colours, but every face the same

Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history
bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we
dream

A winter's night when I arrived there, he looked so tired
and near the end
and as I cleaned his bench and brushes, I wished out loud to
be like him
he said that art was only longing, trying to do what can't
be done
and though he'd signed a thousand paintings, still he'd
never finished one

As I finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the
same
not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty
seen
as she served his noble dream

Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history
bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we
dream