Sculptor And His Creation
Sculptor And His Creation2 mins 337 2 mins 337
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.