PAINT BRUSH
by Bhaskar Mitra, India
The smoothest stroke of the brush of time;
The first one, on the empty canvas that life I call;
Like a note breaking silence long
That all hearing hearts do enthrall.
Like the speeding steed by the name of time
Caught in the moment to stand and pause;
Like a flying arrow piercing hearts
So for its hiatus it can give a probable cause.
The second stroke, like a disciple good,
The first one it does follow.
Like the second note of a commencing song
Destined to fill all hearts, hollow.
Like the second line of a poem sweet
That, with the first, rhymes so good.
Like two birds on the branch of a tree
Or in a crib laying two new-born brood.
Following these is more of the same;
Splattering colors on a face so blank;
Mottled multihued like a butterfly’s wings
As it spreads gently on the middle and the flank.
Like a sweet poem taking birth
Of lines that just seems to rhyme so well;
Like a heart rupturing in passion inside
And colors returning to a face, so pale.
And within moments few, another of
The lord’s divine creation takes its place;
Creation that of the creator so highly speaks
So simple but beautiful none the less.
A life I had, even before,
But it was like a page so white;
Like a sleep that has no dream
Or like the dark starless night.
Like a song that sounds not well,
And like a poem whose lines won’t rhyme,
Like an ocean whose waves won’t break
Or a thought completely stopped in time.
If life was a song, then you are the one
Who a harmonious tune to it did add;
The colors of my life is what you are
The sweetest friend I have ever had.
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