A question rose beneath the viewer’s gaze;
When creating. What were you thinking?
The canvas shimmered, answering in silence,
and I replied –– nothing … and yet, everything.
In a whispering reflection, stillness opened its gate;
nothing entered, yet all things arrived,
rustling their names through hands, brush, and paint.
From memory’s soil, a sunflower rose,
its golden face both fire and prayer.
Beside it, poppies burned like fleeting stars,
while field-thistles stood, unyielding, ‘n’ proud.
Together they carried the breath of a native land,
and in their midst, an eye quietly opened —
as if the land itself, were watching you.
Dewdrops trembled on tender petals in the breath of dawn,
each a jewels mirror of sky, a fragile universe in liquid glass.
Colors leaned closer, as though the canvas found its voice,
murmuring soil, petals, and roots remembering.
The eye, yes the eye –– within the field did not only watch —
it welcomed, as if to say: you too belong here.
Then came the wind with ancient tongues,
through leaves scarred by hunger, ‘n’ carved by storms.
Still they muttered of a distant homeland,
where my mother once walked, once dreamed, once sang.
Her voice returned, in a quiet plea: do not forget,
the hymn of roots is embroidered with me.
And in the end, the canvas breathed:
a chorus of shadows entwined with light,
echoes of voices long departed, yet near.
What once was my private voice to the work
now turns outward, welcomes you to belong.
This is the painter’s secret dialogue —
not of words, but of listening, of seeing, in reflection.