This, that you see, this colorful treachery,
which, by displaying all the charms of art,
with those false syllogisms of its colors
deceptively subverts the sense of sight;
this, in which false praise has sought in vain
to avoid the horrors of the passing years,
and conquering time’s cruelty,
to overcome age and oblivion's might,
is a vain artifice cautiously wrought,
is a fragile flower caught in the wind,
is totally useless for warding off fate;
is a foolish effort that has gone awry,
is a weakened zeal, and, seen correctly,
is a corpse, is dust, is gloom…is nothingness.