The twirl of brush,
The swirl of a lace,
Furrows of concentration,
Dug deep on their face.
An artist at work,
On his greatest creation.
A toddler tying his shoelace,
With utmost frustration.
The battle between
The virtuoso's skill,
Pitted against
The neophytes will.
Colours burning alive,
In the outline's shackle.
The lace neatly bound,
In an orderly tangle.
To be hung on a wall,
The painting sold.
Earning the artist some money
And a dent in his soul.
No witness for the child,
His achievement unknown;
But strutting proudly,
A notch he had grown.
An acknowledged greatness;
Happiness denied.
From a victory unnoticed,
Pleasure derived.
- Himanshu
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