The Artist

About writer

All he knew was to paint,

Wearing the facade of a saint,

In a manner matchless,

Not the least Greek to us.

 

Painting with pen,

Was his passion,

Used to fall in love,

With each word below and above.

 

The wood of thoughts was his companion,

In the glorious creation,

Of the words making the wind articulate,

And the stars suppurate.

 

Ecstasy used to breathe in the works,

Turning his heart as calm and still as the stars,

Hesiod’s didactic jewels would his verses adorn,

The myriad souls from evening to morn.         

 

Stood by the truth ever,

Like water’s edge near the river,

The artist he was and shall ever be,

Inspiring thousands of hearts including you and me.