The calendar fluttered to mark Sunday morning,
Flying birds winged ‘hello’ with their chirping;
In the living room was a fine gentleman,
Gratifying himself with the coffee in his hand.
Feasting his eyes with the art hung on wall,
The golden pot with the flowers got his musings called!
“What if in situ stood palpable flowers?
Wilt would they only in a few hours!
The story of the pot would be heard so…
Into the dust’s hunger did it go!
To convene someone had I been on course,
Encased as a legacy could I carry it of course!
Think if I to ferry it to my daughters and sons,
Living flowers can’t be fancied to see even the next sun!
The yellow wall, brown console under pot and the evening light..
Pictures a scene that won’t ever go into mortality’s might!
Talk if I of the white flowers and green leaves,
The colour is subject to time and so does it leaves!
The ‘art’ is charisma for all senses except one,
The rubric of redolence kicks it to shun;
And so ideate if I to keep the real ones,
With the smell, an hour or two would get me done!
‘Reality’ is essentiality in Plato’s rationality,
What ‘evil’ does art fetch didn’t fit in my mentality!”
Jamia Millia Islamia