Elegy Of The Easel Poem by Prayag Saikia

The canvas has lost itself
In the yellows;
It's an iron easel that solely stands firm.

Time pens an elegy for him
On whom it had bestowed
The hues of the heart

A silk cotton stands
As a mute comrade

As tears the stream flows

A gust of breeze rushes to state—
The vanishing portrait never believed in utterances;
It's quietude wherein lie
The feelings of a masterpiece.

The sun is on its descent.
The yellows course to their nests.

(Translated by Krishna Dulal Baruah)