My hobby of reading began with a meeting with Fyador Dostoevsky.during my teenage. One of his most brilliant works was a novel called Idiot. The magnanimity of poverty and inability was the soul of the story. Just a five pages out of the hundreds led me to the following facet of philosophy which might not suit my age but some facts will be realized as per the time. So this may come in hand some time definitely in the future.
Three Men and a Blade
A thought to paint the face of death
Was a confession made by a poet once to a painter.
What on earth was the color to be chosen
By the maker with the sleek twist in his hands?
The painter got the idea as if he caught the breeze
That he had to give life to a life about to die and
The dying life should regain life after the death;
Death, whose span of acquaintance and the nick of time
Was well known or rather quite imaginable
To the sufferer whose future would last just a few minutes.
The painter nodded to the poet only to elude and avert.
But it was certain that the idea kept beating his soul.
The poet, at last, made his mind to give a hint.
A hint which would justify the weirdness in his thoughts,
A hint in the form of a stimulant to spur the painter's brush.
And began to talk about a face right under a blade.
The lightest was the painter's heart
That was lifted to the sky of imagination just by a few words.
The root is invisible but the stem has a shape.
And the shape was described under the following shade of words.
The face of a man without strength to shed a drop of tear
Was made by the poet for the painter to imagine.
That whiteness in 'the face' was said to be whiter than snow.
The man was to die after a good night, he knew it.
The morning followed as obvious and expected.
He woke up at the dawn, considered to be a man for the last time.
Beard was shaved, hair was shaped and combed.
His stomach was filled but the mind was left emptied.
It was the time to visit the last world in his life.
It was the chance to look at the sky one last time.
And there the guillotine was waiting to welcome him.
He hated his head that was about to leave him alone.
He loved to hug the death, which came to be with him.
He looked at the ten thousand eyes staring at him.
And in one blink, his head was feet away from him.
The sound of his breath got ceased and forever stuck...............
It's time for the painter who received a vivid portrayal.
The painter like a sculptor commenced carving the death.
And promised the man to finish the work before his death.
The painter thought in his mind,
Nothing in life is promising, not even the birth.
Sure is only one thing, that is death!
Was a confession made by a poet once to a painter.
What on earth was the color to be chosen
By the maker with the sleek twist in his hands?
The painter got the idea as if he caught the breeze
That he had to give life to a life about to die and
The dying life should regain life after the death;
Death, whose span of acquaintance and the nick of time
Was well known or rather quite imaginable
To the sufferer whose future would last just a few minutes.
The painter nodded to the poet only to elude and avert.
But it was certain that the idea kept beating his soul.
The poet, at last, made his mind to give a hint.
A hint which would justify the weirdness in his thoughts,
A hint in the form of a stimulant to spur the painter's brush.
And began to talk about a face right under a blade.
The lightest was the painter's heart
That was lifted to the sky of imagination just by a few words.
The root is invisible but the stem has a shape.
And the shape was described under the following shade of words.
The face of a man without strength to shed a drop of tear
Was made by the poet for the painter to imagine.
That whiteness in 'the face' was said to be whiter than snow.
The man was to die after a good night, he knew it.
The morning followed as obvious and expected.
He woke up at the dawn, considered to be a man for the last time.
Beard was shaved, hair was shaped and combed.
His stomach was filled but the mind was left emptied.
It was the time to visit the last world in his life.
It was the chance to look at the sky one last time.
And there the guillotine was waiting to welcome him.
He hated his head that was about to leave him alone.
He loved to hug the death, which came to be with him.
He looked at the ten thousand eyes staring at him.
And in one blink, his head was feet away from him.
The sound of his breath got ceased and forever stuck...............
It's time for the painter who received a vivid portrayal.
The painter like a sculptor commenced carving the death.
And promised the man to finish the work before his death.
The painter thought in his mind,
Nothing in life is promising, not even the birth.
Sure is only one thing, that is death!
1 comment:
Nice Anand you are a good writter fully of feelings and nice toughts.
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