With the brush in his hands,
He portrays life,
He paints the living
And awakens the dead
who are sleeping,
His colors tell the story,
Of past, present and future,
The stripes drawn on his board,
Are made by mystical thoughts,
In his shrine where he sits,
There he consults his ancestral one
To reveal to him,
the dew and doom,
His mind is the force of nature's birth,
Filled with dark thoughts,
and intent of men's heart,
He speak through his silent arts,
drawing the world into the light,
From it own darkness,
To the reality it harness.
©iam.a.poet
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