The Sculptor

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.