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Poem

Subtle shapes of imaginations that craved on the fierce,
Merged colors of hopes that brushed on the dreams,
Hidden words that uttered on the sheets,
Melodies of nightingales and dances of peacocks;

Man is an art, who's breaking art;
Subtle hand craved imaginations died under the regular machine art,
Merged handpicked colored brushed with dreams halting in a dark room,
Silent unwithered words burning inside our hearts,
Melodies of nightingales hushed in the bushes,
Dances of peacocks stilled in the gloom;

Broken arts are nonetheless arts,
'Tis hidden treasure buried in the race,
'Tis broken arts hid the miseries of fate,
Broken arts found in the voyage, living in ease.

Oh' my dear artist struggling to save thy dream
Do it for thy sake, not for this dramatic realm
Thy dreams can be found in the voyage of art 
Thy art is not broken, it's a masterpiece buried for the sprint.

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