The Portrait

Eternal thirst for creation

When he became like the Lord

The painter believed that some time

He would paint a picture and it will revive

But hours of heavenly inspiration

Could not save for the want.

Time out of mind the grief came in our homes

With the dying of dearest man your soul's been

becoming the stone

In fit of despair you appealing for heaven's sake

But They don't hear the prayer and she will never

wake.

He thought, his art, far above the death

And the painter refired, going on paint.

While under his city spread the wings

The Black Death and ruled Her ball on the streets.

But ruthless evil had touched him by bony hand.

She, he loved dying, had lain on deathbed.

In fit of despair he appealed for God's sake

But he didn't hear the prayer and she will

never wake.

He cursed the people, he cursed god

He heard the Devil and chose own lot.

The black agreement sighed by blood

It remained to blend paints with ash of her heart...

By the last touch the portrait finished

And at that instant it came to life.

But her cold fingering and spiritless sight

In a flash sobered down his desire

Without the heart she's only lifeless image

Nobody twice bear under these skies.

And he cut the canvas, beyond expiation

Shape of the one, he loved turned into ash

In fit of despair he appealed for Devil's sake.

But he didn't hear the prayer and she will never

wake.