The honour


October 31, 2010
When the grey, old painter was honoured,

while still alive.

He accepted the bouquet

without an ounce of pride.

Selecting a large yellow bloom from the bunch, he said

“This is for my Gran,

who handed me a charcoal bit behind mother’s back

blaming the neighbour’s kid

for all my artless etchings on the wall”.

 

Selecting two pink blooms, he wiped a tear

And said” For the eternal lovers in my life;

my parents who taught me to love

in black and white”.

 

Then came a tiny red flower,

Kissing it, he proclaimed

“For the angel, who lived next door.

And in my art forever.

The moments of her smile still glow

from the depths of my canvas,

much like sunbeams in dusty bowers,

even though she left me for another man ,eons ago”.

 

The solitary white flower, he kept aside

for his teacher and almost rushed to say-

“For showing me that

the world can be painted upside down

And still keep its beauty intact either way”.

 

Last came the orange blossoms.

Slightly withered ,drooping on their stems

He hugged them to himself,

signaling his speech and life over.

Falling into eternal sleep with the blooms

A wreath adorning his frail frame.

Fame chose a moment too late to arrive.

But he held on to life for a few seconds more

To honour his muses and keep them alive.

At least till his last breath left his core.
—————————————————

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