The art of the Stork

Within the cold wings of a White Stork

Dead eaten by evil on the back

Hovered over the stake of her work

Soaring, her intention, for she lack

But a vintage, that she eased within. 

Let her care alone be her solace, 

For the things past her, her past have been

She remembers, a mere for her grace

On the painting, of the sky and land. 

With colours crafting her cradling cinch, 

Her innate beauty to understand, 

She trembles for art in perfect inch

Every day, to make her happy not, 

But the world- bless for her demeanor

"Let it be me to see the real dot"

Entreats she the God, that art is for.