the picture of a boy

There he is again
sitting and staring.
He can't find a meaning,
he can't see the reason.

The chair brown and old,
the desk rusty and gray;
yet, he sits as if brought from heaven,
trying to give life a meaning.

He himself cannot see the meaning.
His gaze, his sight, in it there is no life.
The paper he holds tears in his hands;
the ink splatters on the floor.

The beautiful drawing is ruined,
the heavenly face is deformed.
He now falls on the floor.
Is he dead or alive? I shall never know.