The disciples were at work,
And the sculptor stood among the
scattered half-built sculptures,
The gods, the erotic dancers and
the excited peacocks,
Gesturing commands and hints
His eyes minutely scanning each
one, for deficiencies.
The creations were easy to fall
in love with,
To posses,, sometimes I thought
How the master was inspiring art,
And thinking of shifting to
another house at the same time,
Five months it had been,
And the rents were pending,
How he infused beauty and finesse,
how breathed in life
And vitality into piece of stone,
I wondered,
When I saw his unhappy wife
Dragging his six year old
chubby-faced son
To the bus stop and pushing him
into the school bus,
And coming back to a house of
darkness and wants.
Yet I always saw, in a quick
glance,
That the disciples and the sculptures
grew in number
And beauty, no matter what,
And the master was ubiquitous
with his shining face,
His thick moustache and folded
loincloth,
The god of creation shining in
his afternoon face.
