a painting of a painter...

'I still paint...pictures of my own
When the sun goes down
And my daughter sleeps off
And I my curtains drop
And sit a while before the canvas
With my easel and long paintbrush
And then I start to move on my own
Engage the canvas of my mind by brushes drawn...
Sometimes it takes a whole long night
I draw picture till the sun comes bright
I draw myself, my darling...and trees
Whoever comes to me with beauty unappeased...'
Saying all these, she dropped her eyes
Playing with her bracelet, and left a sigh...

I looked at her elegant eyes
And found how a cut mark still lies
Just on her left eyebrow
Hidden under the glasses she wore
I looked at her long fingers
And thought by them she with paint lingers
She started again, as if she knew me for years
Talking on about her life and fears...
How she had moved from one place to another
Where from she last week bought a bag of leather...
She told me so many things unasked
How on wintry days under the sun she basked

And once tried to paint her love red
On the canvas how she her prince unmade
She talked and talked...about her past and present
Living with several scratches and dents
Etched by one too many men
She walked down her memory lane...

I looked at her eyes that carried that vine
Producing lovely soft smooth exotic wine...
I looked at her wooden ear-ring
Moving like small bells forever chiming
I looked at her with a submerged soul
And thought of sketch once made on a scroll
By me perhaps using a black charcoal....

It was a sketch of a painter sitting
Before a blank canvas-
With her dreamy eyes knitting
A pensive and melodious song...
So full of love and impassioned longing...

 Thus a painting of a painter came to me
Images of life she made me see...
Images so much old and yet so strong
Images casting shadows dark and long...
Thus I became a painter just for once
She providing me all the stories by chance...




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