Sculptor And His Creation

A sculptor carved a stone

In solitude near a sea shore

Where the echoes of huge waters,

Were the friends all.

With sweat on his forehead

And scratches on his hands,

With stroke after stroke

He filled the beauty of Nature

In that hard rock.

After every stroke, his chest broadened

Seeing a smile, a glare on the face of the rock

Joy boundless, he rejoiced the shape and looks,

That his skilled hands

On the hard stone, had locked.

His creation reflected all the colours of Nature,

Speaking the language of passion and love,

To the Almighty, with gratitude and reverence

The sculptor did bow.

Suddenly, a thought sparkled in the human mind,

A grand auction in the central city! a location prime.

Every step with vigour and might,

He reached the auction site,

With human sounds all around,

He proved his worth in a huge crowd,

One shouted, the other shouted

He earned bucks much beyond he had counted.

Great was the joy, but something was missing too.

His creation now got a new home

Where life was lust, least was love.

Days, months, Years passed by

The skilled hands lost the vigour,

Moral a little low, a little high.

One day while dragging his tired soul

Along the age-old sea shore,

His feet felt friction on the sand.

The fearful look, he could not stand

The aged spine did slowly bent,

His creation which once had broadened

His chest, was lying aimlessly there.

Time and least care had put marks on its body.

The sculptor was all at sea.

He didn’t know how to react.

Silently with a heavy heart, he collected

His creation in his bosom and with heavy steps

He made his way to his home.

His home, he recollected the auction day

That had fetched money, quite a lot.

Tears rolled down from his eyes.

He placed his creation at a safe place,

Caressed it with passion and love

Gradually each part was becoming visible

Though faded, damaged.

The skilled hands were back on job

Days passed, the creation was back with

All colors that the skilled hands had filled in it.

The sculpture was all in tears, the tears of joy.

He ordered for a glass almirah with golden beadings,

Passionately placed his creation in it.

The looks were marvelous. Every bit of the idol

Was speaking the language of love and quality of architecture.

Small celebrations were on, lot of praises,

Lot of appreciation the sculptor gained from the crowd,

Now on that table not only remarks got registered

But the orders poured in with bucks in advance.

Late-night the sculptor gazed at his masterpiece

And thanked Almighty for being a wonderful architecture,

Creating each individual on soil with uniqueness.

And Never leaving any of his creation alone,

And being there always, invisibly.