The Glorious Painter

God as a painter

He has been painting,

Since the Garden of Eden wailed,

Witnessing the Original Sin,

Of the primary beings.

 

He doesn’t paint shapes alone,

Unlike a volcano the canvas is ever alive,

So are the works of art,

Each like an actor playing a part known and unknown.

 

Glory be with Him and His creations,

Letting them move at large,

Controlling at once as if flying kites,

Tolerant like a tranquil sea and like a west wind fierce.

 

Within an endless canvas we are,

Both accessible and beyond,

A surface to walk on,

A colossal space to stir.

          

The walking pictures end up in gloomy sepulchres,

Turning into foodstuffs,

Of those they crushed once,

The paintings don’t die; rather make room for new ones. 

Reviews

[Taurean X Hunter]

That was a beautiful poem, well written.

[Md. Ziaul Haque]

Thank you a lot indeed. :)