a poem has two parts- the words and a painting.
the mind paints on the heart, and the heart rights what on the mind.....

THE PERFECT CHILD

Written and forgotten lines by a friend-

“Why are children punished for being happy?

why are the children punished for being happy?

When their childish heart conceives no fear

From the stronger evil that looks so dear.

Not their fault the see friend in  all

When our life-long friend   turns enemy for a lady in a ball.

We love them innocent , devoid of malice

And malice we show by locking them up alone. No food . no rice.

Why are children punished for being happy?

Is it jealousy of grown ups for whom happy are only memories.

Who have failed in chasing dreams, they saw in their nurseries.

They want to be admired for the things they  don’t deserve.

By showing to others their kids, who are not gentlemen by birth, are underserved.

But little do they realize by punishing the wrong one,

A perfect child is one, who just cant  ‘learn’.”

THE STATUE WITH THE PURPLE HEART

                        

THE SCULPTOR:-

Clad in flawless white,

The lifeless  statue waited, sleepless each night.

For her master’s skilled hands ,on her, would lay,

Working, moulding her into her true shape.

Etching out each new detail,

Into her beauty, her grace.

And she would stand. Motionless. frozen.

Her life was her master’s token.

But was not at ease, the master,

Missing was something, disturbed the creator.

He toiled day and night,

His lady’s beauty never to compromise.

In the scurry, sliced himself did he,

Spilling the purple blood, an unnoticed trickle fell on she.

Absorbing into her, her masters pain,

The purple drop, ignited her heart’s flame.

There  standing before the master,the most beautiful sculpture ever seen,

The artist’s magnificent  masterpiece..

Her beauty-undefeatable, incomparable,

The spark in her eyes- inflammable.

The fragility of her hands, the life in her stare.

The master was now a slave.................

THE SCULPTURE:-

Entrapped in her own pale art,

Numb, but her beating purple heart.

Waited for long, but in vain,

To thank her creator, for all her gains.

But bygone was her master,

To create like her hundred sculptors.

And abandoned was the lady,

Amid  hundred other lifeless ladies....

Thousands came by this way,

Adorations, praises in their say.

Some complained, some criticized,

But for her purple heart , no one had an eye.

Yearning was she, inside the perfect art.

That someone would see, the purple beating heart.

Breathe life into her, would he. From numb, she could then feel.   

The warmth of the blood, the breath of the soul. forever, setting  her free.

Someone’s mistake, someone’s game.

An accident. On the ground she lay.

The flawless art was flawed forever,

Breaking the bleeding heart in her.

And where she was once adored and praised ,

Lies now an unnoticed purple stain...........

courtesy:-to a really good friend of mine........