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"300"
But this won't suffice..
"It isn't exotic to pay such a price"
How my sleepless nights and joy forgotten 
If this isn't sold my family shall be trodden 
The society seems correct when they say
This "mere hobby" will not pay
What special lies in these brushes and blobs
They say
And I like a fool listen in dismay
"Anyone can sketch and smear"
But who does understand 
To me my canvas and strokes are dear

Today I have a family to ..   feed
This brush and a small thin paper was my toy
Oh! How much I loved painting 
Nature felt like a colouring book
I admired God's painting skills
sitting by the clear water rills

But my father-his hands knew stone
A sculptor of the village yet unknown 
With chisel and hammer, he carved with grace
Yet despair always shadowed his face 
No one saw the Gods he shaped
The lifelike eyes, the figures draped.
No one paid for his gifted hand
For art,they said,was worthless and bland.

As a naive child I thought 
I would not face what he had seen
But here I am
Sitting beside the road with eyes so keen
Looking up at passers by
Is there a heart to listen my cry?
My paintings layered with dust they stand 
Painted by a hopeless hand
I bring them here
I take them home
In my mind despair begins to roam
Do I betray my soul to survive?
Or betray my family to keep art alive?
People stop, people see,
Their gazes filled with pity for me.
Someone halts, someone asks,
"What’s the price?"—a moment that lasts.
"1000," I say, hope in my voice.
"Huh," he scoffs—like I have no choice.
"300," I sigh, lowering my gaz.e.
"Okay, sir," I nod, masking the pain.
For a man who has faked a meal outside,
So his family could eat with stomachs satisfied,
Tonight, perhaps, I’ll finally sit at the table,
Not as a starving artist, but as a father—stable.

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