Line on lines…
Akin to straws forming the hay-
Every strike and curve, lends meaning to the piffling bit,
As the silhouette is rendered by the Artist’s lead.
Shade on shades…
The Art grew in a connection of grays-
Just like every stroke fleshes a classical beat,
The perceived doodle is completely life-fed.
Ink on inks…
Its union of rough patches, dared a masterpiece-
As every drop made it obvious to the blind,
A replica of what dwells in the Artist’s mind.
Blend on blends…
Its overt faults became lighter-
On the Artist face, deep smile it extracts
But would it ever be impeccable in the eyes of the critics-? ?
A group of geriatric Arts with known flaws, hidden in beautiful frames.
Critic on critic…
A piece of white paper fits better-
“Why are your lines inexact? ”
“Why are your dots plethoric? ”
A dusty insult they threw on the priceless piece, which never asked to be born.
Year on year
The insult continuously stole the earthborn’s peace-
But would they bring forth a faultless Art if they could find?
Nay! ! ! The mistakes made it unique, the only one of its kind.
The Creator’s mistake in every Art is but a signature every logical observer should acclaim,
For it is part of a bigger picture, only the Artist and the tip of the Brushes may explain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem