An original ballad by Copilot and William

An elderly man who had worked hard when younger, 
Now dreams in retirement an artist to be. 
He sits by the window with tea and with thunder, 
And paints on his screen what the soul longs to see. 

No portraits of grandeur, no landscapes of glory, 
No brushstrokes that mimic the masters of old ... 
But each line he draws tells a personal story. 
In colors that shimmer like memories told. 

And orders fine prints of the ones he holds dear, 
He sends them through wires to places unknown ... 
He smiles at the joy that his visions make clear, 
The walls of his home now a gallery all of his own. 

The elderly man, with no training or title, 
Creates from a place that no schooling can teach. 
His art may be humble, but quietly vital, 
It speaks in a language that longing can reach. 

He paints not for riches, though pennies are welcome, 
But more for the pleasure of making what's new. 
Each morning he wakes with ideas all a-dancing, 
To chase down a dream that he knows to be true. 

A lady once wrote, “Your art makes me feel happy,” 
And that was the moment he knew he had won. 
Not fame, not applause, but a joy that runs snappy, 
Like light through the clouds when the rain has been done. 

So now in his twilight, he paints without sorrow, 
No longer defined by the work of his past. 
He lives for the colors that bloom with each morrow, 
And finds in his art a true purpose at last.