Poems Only

Death of the art

Or that of the artist

Is other than bearable

May be not to humans

But to the world;

To the singing birds

To the shining sun

To the rays of moon

To the shores and oceans

To the gloomy evenings

And to brightest mornings

To the broken wings

Of the butterflies

To the vast horizon

And to the blue skies

All of them remorse

(but the heartless beings)

When an artist dies

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