A Superstitious Reflection

The water was quiet Like the world had folded into one slippery cloth With moist air dragged by some unknown power The origin had never been known Of this deep bowl of blue. My fingers never reached the shallowest sand Where the damp wind touched the naked earth My face with every detail Was carved in this transparent wood By an anonymous painter with brushes Invented from somewhere above. The blend of colors were mixed in shape My hair that were just a bundle of ropes emerging from the dark Interlocked with my forehead Like a brown sheet left forgotten by the dancer. My speech had a source, which pierced through a crack in the face Guarded by thirty two white blood hounds And a slimy python. Suddenly a piece of earth A pebble of such fine mould Fainted into the translucent sheet Which protected the Piscean empire underneath. The painting that was behind a thin red line Between superstition and reality Broke into the brackish water. The carved wood was lost The artist had erased what he had created- An image seemed so true But was indeed such a simple lie.