The Artist

'So many people write letters full of love...why can't you?'
She told him one day,
Her voice had that thing which had crossed that thin red line of expectation and fervent wish...

He returned home and thought hard,
Pressed his pen's nib on the paper and tried to write something beautiful,
Something so fascinating that, he wished, it would just remove all her wishes,
Once and forever;

He tried hard,
To become that artist with a magic wand in his hand,
That would make the world colorful,blessed,tranquil, serene...

O how much he tried,
To be that bard...
To be that lyricist...
To be that musician...
To be that painter...
To be that sculptor...

He worked day in and day out,
To present before her the greatest work of art...
He erred,
He slipped,
He fell,
But he had that grit to carry on...

The summer went away and monsoon came,
And the rains went away, and Autumn ushered in,
And came the winter...

He carried on,
Like a perfect artist,
Forgetting one day why he was doing all that...
Forgetting the very purpose of his hard work...
Forgetting that he had been someone's man...