The fly stumbled across the painter,
And she looked into his dreamy eyes,
His sun-dancing brows rather still,
His hands scattering colours on earth,
His arms weaving magic through air,
And yet his feet won't move an inch!
The fly as curious as impressed,
Stood still. As still as a fly can be -
The kind that wanders the world,
In search of nothing but the trap,
That would help her say good-bye...
And here she was looking wide-eyed,
At the colours forming shapes -
Circles, waves and curves on land,
As if embossed by nature's will,
"As if", she wondered, "But he's a man,
With tools, pretense and petty needs,
Someone who wouldn't know his shades..."
She wondered while she stared -
At his shaky fingers and timid form,
His warm, and distant smiling face,
The grace, with which he moved.
His solemn mood and sullen voice,
That hummed into the silent dusk,
Just when the fly could take no more,
And she stepped forth and questioned,
"What is it that you cannot draw?",
"Is there something that you can't?"
"A shape that you don't know of?"
Questions followed questions before,
He completed his startled move...
And stepped back to look at her,
The fly with the myriad questions,
And he cleared his mellow throat,
Before he managed to collapse,
Into the arms of waiting death,
A sudden lapse, his final fall,
Just after his last whispers,
That echoed through her tiny ears...
If you care to know his words -
I cannot quote but you can try,
To listen to the humming fly,
While she repeats his last words,
"I cannot draw her tears", he said!
This, all flies tell their brood,
The story of the painter and the fly.