Art

K. S. NARASIMHA SWAMY

The artist hath no children; His studio
Is full of portraits of tiny tots.
And the poet no spouse;
He writes only romantic and love poems.
The singer is born destitute.
Though on his lips one finds
Songs in praise of the Goddess of Wealth.
The heart of the critic is the
Veritable garden full of
Ideal pictures, love poems and sweet melodies.
He is the honey bee not flower.
The suffered, the lost and the have-nots-all.
All have become artists upon this earth.
And their art is but a millionth part
Of the endowments they are deprived of.
Only thou could comprehend this logic.
Then.....whose very sight blossoms the lotus...

Translated from Kannada
–Dr. C. S. SUNANDANA