{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Friday, August 19, 2005

The Unseen Drop

Has the color of color died or the paper was too smooth,
Poor fellow tried to show all what he could see with naked eyes.
He again painted with different colors, may be it would show,
Is it color or paper or the dead soul, that refused to register.

A voilin cried in perfection all night to symphonies of masters,
No one stopped by to drop a tear or eye to its passion.
They all danced laughing to the screams from the other side,
Voilin played the music feeding his soul, fasting all night

A penman scribbed his absurd agonies on parched paper for ages,
He thought to store them in a place, away from heat of the sun.
Wisemen came with sweet lullabies, wrote on stone in calligraphy,
Penman died someday, thinking of a story, in the heat of the sun.

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