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The Glorious Painter
He has been painting,
Since the Garden of Eden wailed,
Witnessing the Original Sin,
Of the primary beings.
He doesn’t paint shapes alone,
Unlike a volcano the canvas is ever alive,
So are the works of art,
Each like an actor playing a part known and unknown.
Glory be with Him and His creations,
Letting them move at large,
Controlling at once as if flying kites,
Tolerant like a tranquil sea and like a west wind fierce.
Within an endless canvas we are,
Both accessible and beyond,
A surface to walk on,
A colossal space to stir.
The walking pictures end up in gloomy sepulchres,
Turning into foodstuffs,
Of those they crushed once,
The paintings don’t die; rather make room for new ones.
