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Painter, if I were to
choose a calling, yours
I’ll never begrudge.
That was then, not now.
At the height of my growth,
Painter, I’ve grown to think
twice… I wish I was you!
I’ve wrapped my fingers
around your brushes, not
letting go like a tick on
a dog’s back,
I’ve struck out at the pans
splashing myself with shades
of paints…giggling like an
excited little child at
its first trick,
Your strokes thrust with
dexterous precisions –
now and then – have always
held me captive…
Your strokes, Painter? Yes!
Be they straight,
be they crooked,
be they of any twist
or strand…
Those strokes your brushes
make, speak from
a fathomless heart;
With such fearless aura,
expressions away from
usual human swells,
your strokes, Painter,
tell the stories of a lifetime,
How apt they strike!
Were strokes in words, what
wonders will they make!
Painter, the seemingly refuses
to date the circumstantial.
Painter, the eyes muse over
the complexities of the heart.
Painter, the replications
of human frame never
dawn on the affluent as criminal,
Nor does the teardrops of the paupers
that string our streets day after day;
Painter, if you were to represent
today in strokes and frame,
if you were to cause an outlook
on the horizon of time and season,
What, if I may ask you, will our
fortune be?
If your strokes can envision
beyond the shades of our today,
how will they dab the colors
and cause our souls to surrender
to the bends of nature?
I ask you, Painter… answer me!
… cause this is for you… your call!
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Dumletam
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