Fayaz Bhat Poet Free verse

To a Religious Lady, On Her Face

With one Million words one can not convey,
Ten hundred colors are less.
Give him golden-nib pen
Peacock’s feathers’ brush,
He may later complain.
Even any ink of hope,
An African poet would write
And had won
An eminent prize in Art.
O.K. provide him that surface
 Having grassy milieu,
Lakes’ view and a rainbows’ hue.
Well! free him all his years and ten more,
He would wander forests side
And seek that required wisdom
In summers’ starry nights, winters’ full moon.
Go, call from heaven
The so-called Raphael or any Pre…,
An Egyptian designer or a thinker of Greece,
Or an Italian I have heard much about...
I know I know and proclaim
Alone or in concert—they all shall fail,
Portraying thy rich face.

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