I know that you share Da Vinci's 15th of April birthday.
An Armenian Renaissance polymath,
A genius centuries ahead of our time,
Unable to concentrate his mind on one task,
Being too intelligent his greatest crime.
Slave to no one, a master of his own enquiring mind,
Considered by others to be mysterious and remote.
Was he an artist, or a scientist?
At times he was both of these things,
Born a bastard in the outskirts of Florence,
The Italian died an acquaintance of Kings.
When you study his life there is no denying,
That still to this day, he is like you my Muse awe inspiring.
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