Like the Dutch painter, they paint;

Like the Bard, they write,

So sharp, so fine.

Do they dream of golden hues?

Do they even feel morning blues?

A poet’s heart, a painter’s hand,

Are born of life, of love, of land.

The messy joy,

The quiet pain,

The smell of rain,

Or even hunger,

Anything becomes an art!

Despite writing poetry,

Rhyming, line to line,

Like a melody so complete,

Can AI read what it wrote?

Do they laugh or weep?

Do they feel the joy, so deep?

For the art of life is you and me.

In a world where men;

Still die cleaning sewers,

Let AI dig through the muck,

And leave the art to the human soul.